


Children of the Old Moon

by old_blue



Series: Sacrifice [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Sam Wilson, Alternate Universe, Angst and Porn, Case Fic, Consent Issues, Discrimination, Dystopia, Gender Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knotting, Multi, Mystery, No Rape/Non-Con Between Major Characters, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Stephen Strange, Sexual Assault, Sexual Politics, Sorry Not Sorry, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 15:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 62,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_blue/pseuds/old_blue
Summary: After an encounter with a supernatural killer goes wrong, Stephen is pulled into another world. There, he meets a very familiar face...Now he just needs to catch the murderer, save the multiverse, and find a way back home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Follows **Spark and Fade** and Chapter 6 of **Shuffle** but it's not necessary to read either of those first to understand this. Takes place some nebulous time after Avengers: Endgame
> 
> Omegaverse, but with a few twists: no mpreg, no betas. But with all of the usual omegaverse issues. 
> 
> *Please note: I've used the archive warnings because this story does contain a scene with a sexual assault. There are also some discussions of rape, child abuse, underage sex, and other sensitive topics*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: mention of past rape/non-con, discussion of past child abuse, descriptions of murder and a corpse

_In the beginning, the Goddess created the First Mother and placed her in the garden of earth. And she lived in the garden and ruled over all the useful plants and animals of the earth. But the First Mother was alone and said, "Oh, Goddess, wouldst thou give to me a companion that I may till the earth and tame the beasts of the field?" And the Goddess heard these prayers and gave to the First Mother two sons to be her helpmates._

_And the First Son was bright and fierce as the Sun up in the heavens. And the Second Son was cold and fickle as the Moon._

—from  _The First Book_ , 9th Illustrated Edition for Children, 2001

 

***

 

He wakes up, blinking stupidly into bright morning light. " _Hamir...?_ " His throat is so dry that his voice is barely a croak. He's in a bed—not his bed in the Sanctum.

He was just with Master Hamir, he's pretty sure. The last thing he remembers before waking up here, they were... looking for someone. It takes him another few moments to remember running into the house. Finding the possessed woman still standing over the body on the floor, her fingers red with the blood she'd used to draw glyphs on the wall. He remembers the fight, that followed. Grabbing the woman as the consciousness possessing her tried to escape. He'd held on with his mind as the killer fled. Then a terrible pain as his astral form was ripped from his body and pulled away from his world. Pulled here.

_Here_. In this bed. In a—he looks around—an apartment. But not anywhere near home. He can feel on some instinctual level that this is not his world. The smell here is different, maybe. The specific dimensional energy, or lack thereof, is wrong... And, yet, it also feels familiar. He knows he's been here before.

He feels surprisingly good. His hands, he realizes suddenly. They don't hurt at all. Stephen pulls them out from under the covers to take a look, and groans when he sees the familiar omega tattoos on the backs.

_This fucking place..._  

He flops back down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, thinking. He's back in the crazy world with three sexes, and extremely messed up sexual politics. His last visit here was basically a complete disaster—he'd ended up fucking his arch-nemesis in some kind of animalistic, hormone-induced frenzy. A victim of biology that he didn't understand.

Remembering that sends a shiver of panic through him. _Oh, shit. What if...?_ A quick check of his body, though, confirms he doesn't feel sick, or feverish, or desperate to fuck some asshole. He must be okay right now. He can think still. But who knows how long that will last...

_Of all the worlds in the multiverse.._. Stephen shakes his head.

They'd been so close! They almost had him. If they'd just gotten to the house in Brewster five minutes sooner... Stephen can remember panicking as he felt the killer's consciousness fading from the victim, slipping away back to his own world. He didn't have time to think about it, just grabbed on with his own mind and pulled as hard as he could. He remembers hearing Hamir shouting something at him, then the sound of his voice fading away. And then the pain. That was the last thing he knew before he woke up here. In the body of his alternate self in this parallel universe—his astral form had sought out the most appropriate host.

Stephen takes a moment to reach out and feel for the killer's mind, finds him almost instantly now that he knows what to look for. He's here, in this world. _His_ world, Stephen knows. Not nearby, though. Somewhere far from here, but close to the place where he'd brought his last victim. Brewster, New York. An abandoned house on Laurel Street.

Stephen must be in New York City then, where his double lives. Over four hours away from Brewster. He needs to get there if he's going to find this asshole.

Stephen flings the blankets off and swings his legs out of the bed. Something on his skin catches his eye—more tattoos. A series of bizarre symbols he doesn't recognize, circling his ankles then running up the inside of each leg, ending around mid-thigh.

_What the hell do they mean?_ The writing looks a little like ancient Sumerian, but he can't read it. He doesn't have time to worry about it now, though. He's got a killer to catch.

Stephen grabs a pair of scrubs off the floor and pulls them on, wanders into the bathroom. The familiar face of his double stares back from the mirror—clean-shaven, hair a little curly from sleeping on it. Otherwise, he looks just like himself. He brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face, smooths his hair down the best he can. Good enough. He heads out to see if there's anything here that can help him.

He decides to go out on a limb and guess that this is his apartment. Beyond the fact that he woke up here, everything in it looks like something he might possibly own... if he lived in bizarro world. He wanders around for a minute, taking it all in. The apartment, itself, is small—hardly bigger than a studio. Everything is neat and tidy, but the whole place is filled with books. Almost every wall has a bookshelf, stuffed to bursting. No TV that he can see, though one shelf in the main room is devoted to records, and there's a vintage-looking turntable set up underneath. He doesn't recognize more than a handful of the band names, which is terrifying in an oddly visceral way. A few professional awards are lined up on a shelf, his name on them.

Not many personal effects beyond the books and the records. A tiny kitchen without any food other than coffee. The apartment of a man who isn't home very much, he decides.

As much as he wants to stay and look around, he really needs to get going. He should probably get dressed first, though.

The closet in the bedroom has several nice-looking suits in a style he's never seen before. All in shades of black or charcoal, but a few are velvet and have what looks like silk embroidery on the lapels. Most of the designs are geometric or abstract, but one has tiny, detailed animals of different types under a crescent moon, and another is botanical. The pants also look a little short for him. No ties at all and, oddly, no dress shoes to go with the suits.

_Odd_. Stephen can remember seeing men in normal-looking suits the last time he was here. But, apparently, there are different styles for omegas. He ignores the suits and grabs a plain, black overcoat, pulls it on over his t-shirt. Then socks and shoes.

Then there's the issue of how to get there... The set of keys on the dresser don't include anything that looks like a car key, and his wallet has no driver's license, just a New York State ID card. He must not drive in this world, which is not that unusual for someone who lives and works in the city. There _is_ money in the wallet, however, along with something that looks like a credit card from a bank he doesn't recognize. He can probably take a train part of the way to Brewster, then maybe a bus.

He's smart. He's pretty sure he can figure this place out. 

 

***

 

Hours later, he steps off the third bus and makes his way towards what looks like the right side of town. The map app on his phone is ridiculously hard to use—or he just has no idea how to use it. Eventually, he gives up and shoves it back in his pocket, allowing his senses guide him.

Passing through the tiny downtown, there's the same dizzying sensation of everything being just slightly off. Stores and restaurants that look like chains, but that he's never heard of before. People dressed in clothes that aren't quite right, though he can't put his finger on what exactly is different about them.

He passes a man who has no shoes, but is otherwise dressed in clean, expensive clothes—a bright blue velvet suit with embroidery. The pants are too short. His feet are tough and calloused. A quick check of his hands reveals that he's an omega. _Odd_. The man glances at Stephen's hands, then up at his face, and a look of disapproval passes over his features. Stephen tugs his sleeves down over his tattoos and keeps walking. Another block reveals two more shoeless omegas, but others are wearing shoes. Some cultural quirk then...

He passes through downtown and back out into the surrounding neighborhoods _. Shit_. The feeling he gets when he approaches Laurel Street is familiar in a sickening way—there has definitely been a murder here, too. He walks faster, heart pounding in his chest.

2674 Laurel Street is not the same abandoned wreck he'd visited in his world. The house, along with the rest of the surrounding neighborhood, is nice and well kept.

Unfortunately, he can't get much closer. There's a ton of police activity already. The entire front yard of the house has been blocked off with police barriers. Uniformed cops are milling around outside, drinking coffee. A couple of plainclothes detectives slip under the barrier and go inside the house. Obviously, the body has already been discovered. He's too late to get a look inside.

He closes his eyes and reaches out, tries to sense the familiar mind of the murderer. He's not here now, of course, hasn't been for a while. But he _was_ here. Last night. Right around the time that Stephen was interrupting his plans, back in the normal world. He can't feel any magic in the area, but he's not sure what that means yet. He really need to get in there and take a look at the crime scene, the glyphs he's sure are on the wall. Which, he concedes, could be challenging.

The two plainclothes detectives come back outside, this time with a third man. A familiar man. _Is that...?_ Stephen gets closer to the barricade. _What the fuck is he doing here...?_ He's sure now that this man is Sam Wilson. He's only met him— _his version_ —a few times, but he almost never forgets a face. 

Sam is discussing something with the two detectives. Stephen can't see a badge on him, but Sam's conservative—and completely conventional—suit screams 'cop'. 

Stephen knows absolutely nothing about this Sam Wilson. Although, he's noticed that personalities tend to be shared across universes. The Sam he knows is an honorable man who would do the right thing despite the consequences. A man who bends the rules when he knows they're wrong. He'd be taking a chance, contacting him. But Stephen desperately needs an ally here. And if Sam is involved in the case in some way, that could be the break he needs to fix this. And, maybe, to get home...

_Fuck_... Stephen doesn't believe in coincidences anymore. If this is his chance, he'll take it.

"Sam! Sam Wilson!"

Sam and the two detectives look over at him. And then all three of them actually sniff the air. One of the detectives snickers and punches Sam playfully on the arm.

_Dick_ , Stephen thinks. _What the fuck are they smelling that he can't?_

Sam frowns at the detective, but he ambles over to the barrier, eyes searching Stephen's face. No signs of recognition there—they don't know each other here. It was really a long shot...

Sam's eyes are stern, but not unfriendly. Curious. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes. My name is Stephen Strange. I need to speak with you. It's extremely important. There's—"

"Do I know you?"

"Uh, no. Sort of... Not really. Look, I really need to—"

Sam raises one eyebrow. "I'm sorry—Stephen, is it?—I'm working right now, and I don't have time for this. If you need help, I can send an officer over..."

"Agent Wilson!" One of the detectives is motioning Sam back over to the front door. "She's gettin' cold here!" Sam holds one finger up at him. _Wait_. The other detective wolf whistles, and the two of them laugh.

" _Dick_ ," Sam mutters under his breath. "Look, if you'll excuse me..." Sam turns and heads back over to the other men.

_Shit_ , he's losing him. Stephen weighs his options. None of them are good—all of them likely to get him either committed or arrested. "Sorry, other Stephen..." he mumbles. But the world—multiple worlds—could be at stake.

"The murderer..." he starts, voice low and urgent. "He's killed before. Years before. In the same exact spot, in the same way. Sometimes he goes years between killings. Lately, he's stepped it up." He's taking a chance here, has no idea if things are the same in both worlds, but he has a hunch that he's right. 

Sam freezes, and slowly turns toward him, eyes narrowed. And Stephen knows he's right.

"They're all killed the same way—he slits their throats. He uses their blood to draw runes in a double circle on the wall or the floor. Archaic cuneiform." No going back now. At least he has Sam's undivided attention. Stephen swallows hard. "I know what he's doing. And I think I know how to find him." That might be stretching the truth a bit, but Stephen's always been good at thinking on his feet. He knows he can solve this.

Sam's eyes have hardened. "How the fuck do you know all that?" he says. There's a new intensity there—a hunter catching the first glimpse of prey.

"I told you... We need to talk."

Sam reaches across the barrier and grabs his arm. He keeps his eyes on Stephen, but calls over his shoulder, "Hey, Johnson. Need some cuffs over here."

Johnson must be the fat one. The man saunters over slowly, hitching his pants up. "Didn't know you were kinky, Wilson," he drawls. But he unhooks the cuffs from the back of his belt. 

"I'm taking this omega in for questioning." Sam meets Stephen's eyes. "He says he might be able to help us with our murder."

"Oh yeah?" Johnson steps awkwardly over the police barrier, and gets in Stephen's space, breathing on him. His breath— _maybe his body?_ —smells like onions and old sweat. He sucks his gut in and tries to make himself taller. It's not very effective. Stephen glares down at him.

The man suddenly reaches out and grabs the back of Stephen's neck, forces his head forward.

Stephen can hear Sam saying, " _Christ_ , Johnson…" somewhere behind him. But he can't seem to stop himself from falling painfully to his knees right on the sidewalk. His muscles have become all loose and uncoordinated. He can't even lift his arms to shove this asshole's hand off of him.

Johnson leans over him and breathes hotly on the back of his neck, enveloping Stephen in his terrible smell. "See, Wilson... You just gotta teach these shoe-wearing types how to show respect." He gives Stephen a shake, and his body goes looser still. "Look at him. He fucking loves it. Don't you, sweetheart?"

_Shit_. He can't move, can barely think. Someone— _Sam?_ —pulls his arms gently behind his back and secures the cuffs, checks the fit. 

"That's enough, Johnson. Let him up." Sam's voice. He sounds tired.

Johnson's thick fingers dig in hard one more time, and then the terrible pressure is gone. Stephen blinks at the ground, trying to figure out if he can get up without falling. If his body will obey him now.

Sam tugs a little at his arms. "Come on. Up. You're okay now. Get up." Stephen climbs unsteadily to his feet. His legs are still weak, though, and he has to lean against Sam for support. Sam who, he now notices, smells good—spicy and complex and a little bitter. Like clove cigarettes, maybe... 

Sam walks him over to a patrol car parked on the street. Past the other detective who's wandered over to see what's happening. The other man leers at Stephen. His face is sallow and pinched, and he smells like old paper—not as bad as Johnson. "…like to get you on your knees again," he mutters when they walk by.

Sam ignores him and passes Stephen to a uniformed officer. "Take him in and hold him, please. Temporary hold. Keep him off the books if you can. We're just going to finish up here." She nods and leads Stephen over to the cruiser, holds the barrier up for him so he can duck down and walk under it.

_Fuck_ , now he's gotten his alternate self arrested. Stephen just hopes it's worth it, hopes he can trust this world's Sam. Stephen watches as he follows the two detectives back into the house. The officer opens the car door, helps him slide into the back seat. Surprisingly difficult with his hands cuffed behind his back.

Stephen sighs. He hopes he hasn't just doomed himself to spending the next few weeks in a jail cell while a maniac stalks his next victim.

 

***

 

The cell they put him in is surprisingly clean, albeit incredibly boring.

Stephen's not sure what he expected, exactly. He's never been in jail before, in this world or any other. Maybe he'd expected to be dragged past a hallway of leering men... But this must be a separate holding area for omega prisoners only. They take his shoes and socks, and his wallet, and lock him in. There are only two cells. And now they're both full.

Stephen sits down on the hard bench, checks out the abrasions on his knees. Picks a few bits of gravel out. His scrubs are torn there, too. He glances over at the man— _omega_ , he corrects himself—in the cell next door.

Young—maybe early twenties—curly blond hair, short, and thin. His cheeks are round like a cherub's, making him look younger than he probably is. Make-up on his face, Stephen realizes. It's smudged, and there are old tear tracks on his cheeks.

And he's wearing the most interesting clothes... Loose pants that look like linen—light blue, embroidery at the hems, they only reach mid-calf. A tunic with matching embroidery, and long sleeves, also loose-fitting. No shoes. Stephen can see this man has the same tattoos he has on his own legs—the incomprehensible symbols—disappearing up under the man's pants. Omega tattoos on the backs of his hands. Stephen's decided that these must be government-issue—everyone seems to have them. And, on his chest, where his shirt is open, a tattoo of a crescent moon.

Stephen tries not to stare.

The guy looks him up and down, not bothering to hide his own interest. "What are you in for?"

"Uh..." He's not sure, actually. "Resisting arrest." That's close enough.

The other man— _omega_ —barks out a laugh. "That's awesome! Oh, meg... Wish I could say the same..." 

This guy seems to want to talk. Stephen wouldn't normally be interested, but he's stuck here anyway, and this might be a chance to get some information. 

"What's your name?"

"Jack. You?"

"Stephen."

"Nice to meet you, Stephen." He smirks. "I mean... you know..." He gestures at the bars around them.

"Yeah," Stephen agrees.

They sit in silence for a few moments. Stephen can hear people passing by the outer door, metal banging somewhere. _Boring_.

Jack clears his throat. "So... you must have grown up as a Firster, right?"

"What do you mean?

"Your tattoos." He points to Stephen's legs, at the faded blue marks, just visible at his ankles. "Yours are real. Mine are just, you know..."

Stephen stares back at him blankly.

Jack suddenly laughs. "Are you from another planet or something?"

That's surprisingly close to the truth... "Uh, sorry. I had a head injury a while ago. And now I have trouble remembering some things."

Jack sobers immediately. " _Oh, meg!_ That's awful. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have laughed..."

"It's no problem." Actually, this could be a good opportunity to satisfy his curiosity... "Uh... do you mind if I ask you some really dumb questions?"

Jack grins. "I don't mind. Can't be any dumber than the shit I get asked by my clients..."

_Clients_... He'll have to come back to that. But first... "What's a Firster?" 

" _Meg!_ You really do have a problem." Jack shakes his head in sympathy. "Let's see... _Firsters..._ That's slang forthe Order of the First Body. Kind of a cult, I guess. A big one, though. Lots of powerful government people are members. Conservatives, you know—the same ones fucking us over right now. Real dicks... _Oh, shit! Sorry!_ You're not a member anymore, I mean, you couldn't be... Not with..." Jack gestures at him, but Stephen can't tell exactly what he's referring to.

Stephen shakes his head. "No, I'm... not..." He doesn't think he is. He's pretty sure…

"Cool, sorry. Anyway, the regular members live in these huge compounds out in Kansas or Nebraska or something. Communally, you know, like how they imagine the people who wrote the First Book lived. Total bullshit, right..." He snorts, but then frowns, glances over at Stephen. "Real traditional with the gender roles, if you know what I mean... People who've left say it's a bad place for omegas. Men, too, but... omegas are treated like property in the compounds. They're not free to leave, can't ever wear shoes, or own anything, get passed around, you know..." He gives Stephen a shrewd look. "Or maybe you don't… _Meg_ , it's too bad you can't remember! I'd love to hear how you got out."

_"_ Yeah, me too," Stephen says quietly. _Interesting_... He's got a newfound sense of respect for his other self. He runs his fingers over his chin, thinking. So odd that there's no beard there, no stubble either even after two days without shaving. He remembers something else... "You said your tattoos were fake...?"

Jack nods.

"So why do you have them?"

The other man chuckles. "Oh, you know... My clients like them. It's some kind of fetish thing. The clothes, too." He gestures down at himself. "So many of them want a traditional, submissive omega. I can charge more if I play that up, you know..."

"You're a—a..." Stephen stumbles over the right word. He doesn't want to accidentally say something offensive.

"I'm a sex worker, yeah."

"Is that why you're in here?"

" _What...?_ Why would that be..." Jack squints at him in confusion. "No, that's not... I mean, it's related... I punched a client." He shrugs, a slight smile on his face. "Asshole thought he could get rough with me. And I don't do that." Jack pulls at his clothes. "I may dress like this for work, but it's all an act, you know? Some of my clients have trouble remembering that."

Jack flexes his right hand thoughtfully. "Still... hitting a man like that... An alpha, I mean. I'll probably lose my license, get stuck with a hold or a state assignment. Taking care of someone else's brats. Or worse... my own!" He grins at Stephen.

That's another thing... "So... how does that work exactly? With three sexes?"

Jack's grin turns teasing. "Are you asking me how babies are made?"

"I guess I am, yeah." Stephen can't help the embarrassing flush that creeps up his neck. "Just pretend I know nothing."

"Wow! You really did wipe out everything, didn't you..." Jack looks at the ceiling. "Well, let's see... Never thought I'd be having The Talk with a middle-aged omega," he mutters. "Uh, so women carry babies inside their bodies, right? They give birth to them." He glances over at Stephen as if to see how well this information is going over.

Stephen nods impatiently. At least that's the same...

"So, uh, she needs sperm to make a baby. A sperm, like, merges with an egg and the genes combine. Somehow. I don't really know how that works. I didn't pay that much attention in biology class, sorry..."

"That's okay." So far, all of this is familiar.

"She gets the sperm after mating with an omega male. I don't need to explain how that works, do I?"

Stephen shakes his head. He can figure that part out.

"Omega males—that's us, in case that wasn't obvious—our bodies produce sperm. But we can't make it on our own. We have to mate with an alpha male while we're in heat. Alpha males make spermatids. They're almost like sperm. But they don't swim, and they only have some of the genes needed to make a person. Our bodies take those and combine some of our genes with them, and kind of... process them, and make sperm. And then, well, you know..."

"So... everyone has three parents." He wonders if that means the humans here have three sets of chromosomes instead of two. Triploid, instead of diploid. _Interesting..._

"Of course, I mean... yeah." Jack gives him a doubtful look. "How else could it work?" 

Stephen just shrugs. He can think of a few ways...

He has so many more questions he wants to ask— _Why are omegas treated so differently? What's with the shoes? What do his tattoos mean? Can three people get married? Do all the mammals in this world have three sexes? All animals? Why does grabbing his neck make him lose control of his body?_ —but the outer door suddenly squeaks open. 

A young officer steps in, fumbling with a huge set of keys. "Jack Denton?" He looks expectantly between the two of them.

Jack stands up, wipes his hands down the front of his tunic, all of his confidence gone. "That's me."

"Your advocate's here." The officer unlocks the door to Jack's cell. Stephen watches carefully as the key turns in the lock and the latch-bolt slides back. It's the type of door that won't open without a key. But it locks automatically.  _Maybe_...

The heavy cell door swings shut behind them. Jack turns around when they reach the outer door, smiles. "Hey, Stephen. Nice to meet you. Good luck. Hope you find some answers." He winks.

Stephen smiles back. "Thanks for talking to me. And good luck to you, too." 

He waits until Jack and the officer are gone. Then Stephen walks over and reaches through the bars of his cell into Jack's. He pushes on the cell door. It swings open. Not latched. He breathes out slowly and releases the magic he's been using to hold the latch-bolt back. It springs out. Now it's locked. That took some effort, but he managed it. Magic _does_ work here, it just follows a few different rules, like so many other things...

He holds up his hand and stares at it. And suddenly he has a plan.

 

***

 

Three or so hours later, the same young policeman comes back to fetch him.

The police station is pretty small—would have to be, for such a small town. They pass through a set of barred gates, then down a hallway lined with small rooms—not offices, maybe interrogation rooms... The police officer opens a door to one of these and motions him inside. 

Sam Wilson is sitting at the small table already, an open file spread out in front of him, another closed file underneath. One cup of coffee on the table, along with Stephen's wallet and phone. No shoes. Nothing else in the room except for an empty chair. No mirror on the wall like a crime movie cliche. Sam looks up at him.

"Take a seat."

Stephen sits down and waits for Sam to say something. He eyes the coffee longingly, but nobody offers him any. The young officer shuts the door and leaves them alone.

Sam gives him a long appraising look, then leans forward and picks up a page from the file. "Stephen Strange, forty-one, omega," he reads. "A doctor"—he raises his eyebrows at Stephen—"at Metro General Hospital in New York City. Which is pretty extraordinary, in its own right." He flips through a few pages casually. "From Nebraska. No living family. Sealed juvenile record. Ward of the state from age fifteen to eighteen. MD and PhD from Harvard. A good citizen..."

Sam closes the file and sits back in his chair, gazes steadily across the table at him. "Until today. When you took a bus up to Brewster and told me you had information about a serial killer who we've been tracking for years. Information you couldn't possibly know."

Stephen sighs. _Gods_ , he wants that coffee. "Look. I'm going to be completely honest with you—"

"Thank god for that," Sam says. There's a small smile on his lips.

Stephen scowls at him. "But what I'm going to say will sound crazy to you. So I want you to try to keep an open mind..." He can already tell that's going to be hard. "I can prove everything that I say. Well... almost everything." There might be some issues with that. He'll deal with it when he has to.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest. "Okay. I'm listening."

Stephen has already wrestled with how much to tell him, and decided that Sam will be the most useful to him if he knows everything. Either he'll accept the truth and they can get to work. Or he won't, and Stephen will find some way to fix this without him. Whatever the outcome, he's pretty sure now he can escape if he has to. From a psychiatric ward, if necessary...

He takes a deep breath. "My name is Stephen Strange. But I'm not _that_  Stephen Strange." He tips his head at the file. "Not exactly... I'm actually a Sorcerer from a parallel universe. My consciousness was pulled from my own dimension into yours, and now I'm inhabiting this body. The body of my alternate self who exists in this world." _Fuck_ , that already sounds certifiably insane. And he hasn't even gotten to the good part yet.

Sam raises an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, but he doesn't say anything.

Stephen clears his throat. "My world is almost like this one, except we have magic there. I mean... there are other differences, but that's not important right now. In my world, we—myself and some other Sorcerers, the police—have been trying to catch a serial killer. He's murdered eleven people that we know of, so far. The murders go back years—hundreds of years, in some cases. The symbols that he leaves on the walls are part of a magic ritual, a spell he's performing. We don't know what it does yet. I can guess, but..."

Stephen glances up. Sam is just staring at him.

He clears his throat again and goes on. "He's been busy, lately. Something's changed. In the past, he's gone years—decades, even—between murders, but now he's moving faster. We hadn't gotten very far trying to track him. We had an idea of when the next murder would happen, based on the runes, but not where. Not exactly. There were a few possible places—spots he keeps coming back to, to perform the same ritual. Room 244 at the Warwick Hotel in Peekskill, a vacant lot in Queens, a particular grave at the Locust Valley cemetery on Long Island, an old warehouse on Luddington Street in Syracuse, the house on Laurel Street in Brewster."

Sam's eyes narrow just slightly, and that intense predatory look is back. Stephen can see him actually thinking all of this over.

"A couple of us waited at each spot to try to catch this asshole. Only... we miscalculated. And we were too late." _Fuck_. He shakes his head. If he and Hamir had just gotten there five minutes sooner... "By the time we got to Laurel Street, the victim was already dead, throat slit. Her murderer was also there, still drawing runes on the wall in the victim's blood. A woman—a local attorney, actually. She's also a victim. She was forced into this—possessed somehow by the killer. We already knew he could do that, even if we don't know how. The murders in my world were all committed by random people. People who had no memory of kidnapping the victims or killing them. People who couldn't possibly know how to draw the symbols they'd drawn in the victims' blood. He destroyed their lives, too."

Stephen pauses for a few moments until Sam says, "Go on."

Stephen nods. "Like I said, we got there too late. But I could sense that the killer's... _consciousness_ was still inside the woman he'd possessed. I... grabbed onto it and held on. When he escaped back into his own world, I followed him. We had no idea he was from a parallel universe. They're... hard to get to by our normal methods, and I might have trouble getting back. But that's how I ended up here. I woke up in an apartment in New York, in this body. _My_ body in this reality."

He waits to see what Sam will say. When he doesn't say anything, Stephen sits back. "And that's it," he concludes.

"Well..." Sam starts. "That story is, quite frankly, unbelievable. In every sense of the word."

It's exactly what he'd expected Sam to say. "You never released the details of the crime scenes—the marks on the walls, the way they're killed—to the public." Another hunch, but he's pretty sure he's right. "How could I know all of those details if I was just a crazy person?"

Sam shrugs. "People talk. Rumors get out. Someone had to find the bodies and call the police."

"Even if info got out about one or two murders, the public still doesn't know that all of those sites are connected."

Sam looks at him levelly. "The killer knows they're connected."

Stephen smiles. "You might think I'm crazy, but you don't think I'm the killer."

Sam stares at him another beat, before his shoulders slump in defeat. "You're right. I don't." He sounds pretty disappointed about that. "You were in surgery at Metro General last night until four am. I checked. Oh, and your friend, Dr. Palmer is worried about you."

At Stephen's look of alarm, Sam adds, "Don't worry. I explained where you were."

"I'm not sure that helps."

Sam snorts.

"So... you don't believe me. How do _you_ think I know all of these details? And what possible reason could I have for making up a story this insane?"

Sam's smile turns sad. "You really wanna know what I think?"

"Yes."

Sam sits up and pulls the other file toward him. The one Stephen assumed was about the latest murder. "Your juvenile records are sealed, but I unsealed them." Sam gives him a searching look, waiting for some sign from him, maybe.

Stephen shrugs minutely.

Sam nods. He doesn't open the file, just lays his palm flat over it. "When you were fifteen, you were found wandering down a county road near Johnstown, Nebraska. Thirteen miles from the Living Blood Commune. You were thin to the point of emaciation, and you'd been beaten. Repeatedly. There were bruises and old rope burns on your wrists and ankles, from where you'd been tied. Whoever did that also tried to hobble you—they sliced the bottoms of your feet to keep you from walking. Didn't work, though... You were still walking when they found you. You walked thirteen miles from that place on feet so torn up most people would have trouble standing."

The words stir up a memory from somewhere deep down— _slicing his fingers on razor wire as he climbs, his feet are already too clumsy and numb to feel anything. He slips down, catches himself just before he falls_... A memory from his other self, still deeply asleep inside his mind. Stephen winces.

Sam's voice has gone oddly gentle, watching him. "The state trooper who found you said you were still in heat. She took you straight to the hospital. They did an exam there. Found DNA from five different men inside you."

_A man's face above him, features twisted and distorted until it looks like one of the demons he's read about in the First Book. He knows it's his body—his smell—that have turned this man into a monster. He shuts his eyes and prays for it to be over..._

Sam seems to be waiting for him to say something. Stephen shakes his head, dislodging the memory. "That's—that's all terrible, but I don't... That didn't happen to me."

The other man nods slowly, eyes locked on Stephen's face. "So you wanna know what I think? About your story?"

"Yes. I do."

"I think you're really fucking smart. Crazy smart. Anyone who can earn an MD and a PhD from Harvard has to be really God damn smart. And for an omega to do all that..." Sam shakes his head in disbelief. "But I also know that shit like this"—he stabs at the unopened file with a finger—"that has to leave a mark. And I know that _this_ wasn't the first time they beat you, or raped you, or cut your feet the fuck up. This was just the last time."

He sits back in his chair again, eyes soft. "So, what I think is that you've used that crazy smart brain of yours to come up with a way to twist the world around. Make it so this fucked up shit didn't happen to you. It happened to somebody else, instead. Some other person, living in some other dimension. You've been keeping it together for years, but... I think something happened yesterday that set you off. Don't know what... maybe you had a psychotic break or something... And I think you took all of this information you've gotten over the years from reading the papers, maybe the internet, and from making your own deductions about the murders. Mixed all that up with some incredibly accurate guesses. Because you're fucking smart. And you've put all of these things together into this very complex narrative about multiple worlds, and Sorcerers, and magic and shit. Because that's so much better than the truth."

Stephen smirks, but it hurts a little, murmurs, "I'm not that creative." He looks around the room. There's not a lot here to work with, but he can probably manage to put on a good show. "So you think I'm fucking crazy."

Sam shifts uncomfortably in his chair, crosses his arms again. "I wouldn't say that... Omegas are naturally unstable. With the shit you've been through..." He shrugs.

"Well..." Stephen raises his perfect, unscarred hand—still so hard to get used to that—and locks eyes with Sam. "Let me show you something that might change your mind."

 

***

 

An hour or so later, they're sitting in Sam's nondescript rental car, in front of the house on Laurel Street.

Stephen can see floodlights on through the windows where a few techs are still working, but the street is dark and quiet. Only a single patrol car outside, watching the scene. Most of the cops are gone for the night.

Sam's eyes flick to his warily in the rearview mirror. "So you have powers." He says it like that's a thing here. Powers with a capital 'P'.

"Powers?" Stephen's in the back seat. Cuffed again, but at least they're in front this time—much more comfortable when sitting.

"Yeah. You know, powers. Some people can read minds or move things without touching them, the way you did back there. Light fires. That sort of thing."

"I call that magic."

"I call it fucking weird." That sly smile again.

Stephen smirks and tips his head back against the seat. He's feeling a little dizzy and worn out after flinging papers and chairs and a half-full cup of coffee all over the interrogation room. And scaring the shit out of Sam Wilson. He still feels a little bad about that. "Sorry for the mess back there," he says.

Sam shrugs. "Someone else's job to clean it up."

So... _powers_. Stephen frowns. That _is_ interesting, though. Magic _does_ work here—he's just proven that—but it has a distinctly different flavor. The forces he'd called up had been slippery and hard to work with. Stephen has no doubt he could master them, given time. Maybe this is how the killer does what he does... How he sends his consciousness out to other dimensions, possesses people. Based on what he knows so far—the fact that the FBI and the police are still looking for a single killer here—Stephen's pretty sure he can't possess minds in his own world. Which is reassuring...

Stephen realizes he's just been sitting here, silent, while he thinks. Sam is still watching him in the rearview mirror. That brings him to another question... "If you don't believe me, then why are you wasting your time like this?"

Sam grimaces. "I'm desperate. And, for whatever reason—powers, magic, whatever the fuck—you seem to have a connection with our killer. I don't know... Maybe you've tapped into his mind somehow. But your 'spell theory' is the best explanation I've heard so far for the crazy shit this motherfucker does. And I'll take anything I can get right now. At this point, we're just sitting around, waiting for the next murder."

Sam helps him out of the car and they go inside. The main floor has the same layout as the house in his world, except this place has been nicely restored, and someone obviously lives here. It's full of high-end furniture instead of trash. The old wooden floors have been recently refinished. 

It would be nice, Stephen thinks, except there's a dead body in the middle of the room and blood smeared on the wall.

Sam shoos a couple of techs out and shuts the door. And then they're alone.

"Come here for a sec." Sam motions him over and unlocks the cuffs. The brush of his fingertips against Stephen's skin sends an electric thrill racing through his body. He has to resist the urge to lean in and smell Sam's hair. When Sam steps back, Stephen rubs his wrists, trying to chase away the sensation.

"I don't think I have to remind you not to touch anything," Sam says. 

Stephen nods at him. His sense of the killer is strong in here, but old. 

The victim's body is still on the floor, covered in a sheet. That's unusual... Stephen looks questioningly at Sam.

Sam shrugs. "The ME is still waiting for the body transport guys. They're down one van after wrecking one this morning..." 

Stephen nods absently. He skirts the edge of the body and the evidence markers on the floor, walks closer to the wall where the killer drew his magic circle. No smell or feeling of magic at all. And some of the glyphs of the inner ring are missing.

"He didn't finish..." he murmurs to himself.  _But, why...?_

Stephen turns back to Sam. "When was the body discovered?"

"Just after eleven this morning. I got the call about twenty minutes later, when the local guys realized what they had."

"Time of death?"

Sam sighs and pulls out a little notebook. "It's not official yet, but the medical examiner says she was probably dead for at least eight hours before she was found."

Plenty of time for the killer to finish the spell, even with Stephen chasing him out of the lawyer and back here. But he abandoned the ritual after that happened. Stephen's arrival at the murder must have ruined the killer's plans in both worlds. He's not sure what that means yet...

Sam is watching him, waiting patiently. Stephen gestures at the wall. "He didn't bother to finish the spell. After I interrupted him."

" _He?_  You keep saying that. We haven't found any DNA at a crime scene yet. Why are you so sure it's a man?"

"I—I don't know..." Stephen admits. Is he sure? Everything he's felt so far from this person seems male—the way he thinks of himself, the fact that he's a murderer at all. The victims have all been female. The profile of a serial killer... All of that could be completely irrelevant in this world. Is he just defaulting to a male viewpoint because it's familiar? Possibly...

"It could be a woman," he concedes. "Or an omega." Can't discount that possibility either. "I don't know enough about your society to guess."

Sam nods. "Yeah. If the FBI's best profilers can't figure it out, I doubt a crazy omega who thinks he's from another dimension will have much luck."

Stephen shoots a glare over at him. The other man is smirking. _This_ Sam must also be an ass. At least some things are universal...

He gestures at the body under the sheet. "Can I take a look?"

"Yeah. Hold on." Sam steps carefully around the blood splatter and evidence markers on the floor, lifts the sheet off the body.

She's lying on her back in a pool of congealing blood. In her mid-forties— _was_ in her mid-forties, he corrects—dark, curly hair, round face, nose a little too big. Stephen recognizes her right away. There's no way he could ever forget... "It's the same woman."

"What?"

"The same woman from my world. The one he murdered there. Right before I interrupted him. How is that possible...?" That makes no sense... It shouldn't work like that. The universes are connected, of course, but they're also independent—what happens in one shouldn't affect the others. _Unless.._.

"He's— _fuck!_ " Stephen shakes his head in frustration. "I mean, the killer— _damn it_ , I'm just going to call him 'he'—he must be targeting the same people in both worlds. He kills them here, then he kills the same person in the exact same spot in my world. And then he does it over and over again." 

He looks back down at the dead woman. Her face is too pale, mottled purple. Eyes half-closed, unfocused. A wound across her throat that's demurely closed—just a thin, red line. The blade he used must have been so sharp...

_But why? What the fuck is he doing?_

Stephen stalks back over to the unfinished spell on the wall, stares at it. He hadn't gotten a chance to get a close look at the one from his world, had been too busy getting his soul ripped from his body. The answer has to be here... He's killing them to power _this_ spell, right? That's what they'd assumed, anyway. That the victims are sacrifices.

Stephen scrubs his hands over his face. _Gods_ , he wishes Wong and Hamir were here right now. He really needs to talk to them.

He can see right away that this spell would have followed the same pattern as the others—most of the runes are the same, with a few slight variations. And, just like all the others, it looks incomplete. And not just because the killer didn't have time to finish this one. All of the spells at the crime scenes, even the finished ones, had been odd like that—missing some of the basic components you needed to make magic work. 

And, yet, there had been an unmistakable whiff of magic at the other murders. Clearly, the spells had worked. So how had he done it? And what the fuck _was_ he doing?

Sam has come up silently behind him while he's thinking. He still smells good. Stephen unconsciously starts to inhale deeply, trying to get more of that intoxicating smell in his nose, and has to stop himself. This isn't helping... He shakes his head, instead, to clear it. 

"What do they mean?" Sam asks, voice low and rough.

Stephen shudders, tries to focus. That's a good question. He swallows hard before he can speak. "This part"—he gestures to the outer ring—"is supposed to form a connection between two things. Link them, somehow. Make a kind of bond. Though, I have no idea what two things the spell is referring to. The runes here are actually just a series of numbers, repeated over and over again. Two, five, six, one, eight, seven... It could be anything... This inner ring, which he didn't have time to finish, is the weirder part..."

Sam snorts.

"These runes could describe events that happen again and again, like a holiday, or an important date, or the way the stars align during a certain season. Or they could be talking about a coincidence, uh... two similar events happening, or..." He suddenly goes still, lets his voice trail off.

_Oh shit._ Just like the murders, he thinks. The inner ring suddenly makes sense. Now that he knows the killer has been committing the same murder—of the same person—in multiple worlds. At the same time. They hadn't known about that before. Hadn't had all the pieces...

Sam is watching him carefully. "You thought of something."

"Yeah." He steps away from the wall, avoiding both Sam and the body. "The murderer is killing the same people in the same spots in both worlds. He's making his own coincidences. Forcing them to happen. On purpose, for some reason. We thought the victims were just chosen at random, as sacrifices to power the spell. But that's not it at all. They _are_ the spell. Their simultaneous deaths in both worlds are the important part..."

"Okay. So..." Sam starts. "What does this spell actually do?"

Stephen blows out a long breath. "I—I still don't know yet." Wong would have probably figured it out by now. He needs time to think about this.

Stephen rubs at his face in frustration. He's too damn tired right now to put all the pieces together. He looks up at Sam abruptly. "Am I under arrest?"

"No, but—"

"I need to think about this for a while. But I need to check in with the hospital first. Is there a way I can get back to New York?" Even though he has a world to save, he can't just wreck this other Stephen's life. Not after everything he's already been through, how hard he must have worked to achieve what he has here.

Sam shakes his head. "Sorry. I can't let you leave."

"If I'm not under arrest, why can't I leave?" Now he's starting to get annoyed.

"I registered a temporary hold on you. So you need to stay with me for as long as it's in effect."

"Hey, come on! I'm going to lose my job, if that hasn't already happened. I probably have surgeries scheduled for tomorrow morning."

"Relax. I cleared it with your supervisor, Dr. Bennet. Said I needed you for an urgent case as an expert in your field. Which is close enough to the truth. I didn't mention any of the crazy shit you told me. She won't legally be able to penalize you for missing work, not if you're assisting the government with an official investigation."

Stephen grunts. He doesn't know anyone named Bennet. "Thanks." _Wait, what...?_ Sam's words finally register—he must be really tired. "What does that mean— _a hold?_ "

"It means I have temporary custody of you for the duration of this case or until I revoke it. It's just easier this way. Now you can go anywhere as long as I accompany you. Also, I can keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't do any crazy shit. Right now, I don't think you're a danger to yourself or anyone else, but that doesn't mean I want you performing brain surgery on some poor motherfucker."

_What the hell...?_  He's suddenly pissed off at everything—the killer, his inability to figure everything out, this fucked up world... " _Custody?_ Like I'm a damn child?"

Sam gives him a meaningful look. "No. Like you're an omega." His expression turns curious. "You really have no idea what that means, do you?" Oddly, his smell has also changed—it's stronger, but the bitter note is gone. Sweeter somehow, and even more intoxicating. _Soothing_...

Stephen can already feel the anger and tension draining away. "No, I really don't." _Gods_ , he's never going to get used to this talking with smells thing...

"I might have to give you a few tips, just to keep you out of trouble. But not right now. It's late and I'm starving. Let's get out of here."

 

*** 

 

Sam watches with a kind of horrified fascination as Stephen shovels bad Chinese food into his mouth almost faster than he can swallow it. " _Holy shit_ , when was the last time you ate?"

Stephen has to choke down another mouthful before he can actually speak. "Don't know. I wasn't in this body until this morning. Haven't eaten anything since then." He'd been so focused on getting to Brewster and then getting arrested that he hadn't noticed how close he'd been to crashing. That little trick he'd pulled at the police station had apparently taken a huge amount of energy. "Sorry. I'm really hungry."

They'd stopped to pick up the food and some beer after leaving the crime scene. And then Sam had driven them to his hotel out on the edges of town near the highway. A Residence Inn—it looks like every other one Stephen's ever stayed at. He's almost more surprised at the things that are the same between both worlds.

Stephen's still not sure where he's supposed to be staying, but he's too hungry to worry about it right now. He shoves in another mouthful of bland cashew chicken, while Sam stares. 

After a few moments, Sam takes a more reasonable bite, chews thoughtfully. "So, this morning... At the crime scene. You recognized me."

Stephen nods. His mouth is too full to say anything.

"Does that mean we know each other in your world?"

He swallows and takes a long sip of beer before speaking. "Yeah. We know each other." He's not sure how much he should say. What influence that might have on this world...

"So?" Sam prompts. "How do we know each other?"

Stephen scowls in irritation. "You think I'm a crazy person who invented an elaborate fantasy to escape the physical and sexual abuse in my past. Why does it matter what I say?" 

Sam holds out his hands, placating. "Hey, I'm just making conversation while we eat."

That calming smell washes over Stephen again, more noticeable even than the smell of food. Not a smell, he realizes. _Pheromones_. His confused brain just keeps interpreting them as smells because it's the closest thing. Like a formerly deaf person struggling to make sense of different sounds.

Either way, he seems to be powerless against Sam's many charms. The irritation fades away, leaving him feeling like an asshole. "I—I'm _..." Fuck._ "Sorry. I'm just tired."

At least Sam doesn't seem offended. "No problem," he says mildly.

Stephen takes another bite, thinks things over. It probably won't hurt to talk about his world, especially if Sam thinks it's all a fantasy. "You're part of a team of—of... peacekeepers, called The Avengers. Or you were, until recently. Led by a man named Tony Stark."

"That name sounds familiar... Where have I heard it before? It'll bother me all night if I can't figure it out..."

Stephen smiles at that. "In my world he's a multi-billionaire, tech genius. He was the head of Stark Industries, until he gave control of the company to his partner, Pepper Potts."

Sam points a fork at him suddenly. " _That's_ where I've heard the name—Potts Industries. Stark is Pott's bond-mate, works as her head engineer. Guy's supposed to be a genius or something. He actually has a lot of power, for an omega... Sorry, go on. The Avengers, huh? What are we supposed to be avenging?"

Stephen chuckles. "I agree—the name is ridiculous. It's one of the reasons I'm not part of the group... And you don't really avenge anything, just protect the world, mostly." He glances up at Sam, wonders how much more he should say.

"In my world, you used to be in the Air Force, flying some kind of experimental wing suit. Until your partner got shot down. Then you quit."

Sam regards him with renewed interest. "That tech is still classified. And the mission. I've never told anyone about that... How could you possibly know about it?"

Stephen grins at him. "I told you. I'm a Sorcerer. I know everything."

 

*** 

 

Stephen tosses and turns in a bed that is surprisingly comfortable, but smells too much like Sam Wilson to be restful.

Apparently, an alpha and an omega sharing a hotel room with only one bed is completely socially acceptable here, even if one has custody over the other. Stephen's still not entirely sure what that means. Sam had graciously offered to sleep on a roll-away he'd had brought up. The thing was now jammed into the tiny hall between the door and the bathroom, Sam snoring in it.

Stephen has long since given up on trying to sleep. Now that it's quiet, he tries again to contact Wong. If some murdering asshole can send his entire consciousness to Stephen's world, he should be able to manage a short chat with a friend. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on Wong, somewhere out there in the multiverse, probably pissed at him for screwing this up. The smell of old books and incense. But there's nothing.

He can, however, feel the killer out there, somewhere, his mind like a low hum from some distant machine. Their new connection linking them together in this world. Too far away to feel very clearly, but he's calm. Apparently, not out murdering someone to power his bizarre spell, which is a relief. Sleeping maybe, Stephen thinks.   

A glance at the digital clock on the nightstand confirms that it's just after three in the morning. And despite his exhaustion from earlier, Stephen can't seem to relax.

He listens for a while to the sound of Sam snoring quietly from across the room. In sleep, his smell is muted, but still present, filling the tiny room. Stephen shifts restlessly and tries to ignore the way the smell seems to crawl over his skin, sink into his nose.

Eventually, the exhaustion catches up with him and he sleeps. And dreams...

_He's standing alone in a field of grass—the winter-brown prairie surrounding him on all sides like a sea. The wind blows wave after wave across the grass, and the dead stalks rasp and whisper together. He stares up into the white sky at a solar eclipse, tears streaming down his face. Sees the proud moon rising up against the sun. It spreads its darkness like a shroud over the world below._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The murderer strikes again. Stephen realizes it's a man's (and a woman's) world out there. And he and Sam come to an agreement...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: sexual assault, sexism, victim blaming, an awkward medical exam, descriptions of murders and corpses

_The passage of this bill marks a momentous day in our nation. A day when we will be remembered for taking the necessary steps to preserve our society and our way of life, in the face of an increasingly hostile dangerous world. A day when we ensure that the future of our children and our children's children will be preserved for generations to come._

—Congresswoman Eva Tovari on the passage of HR 341, banning the manufacture and distribution of heat suppressants, 2015

 

***

 

Someone shakes his shoulder.

"Hey, man... Stephen. Hey. Wake up."

" _Wha...?_ " He blinks a few times at the incongruous sight of Sam Wilson standing next to his bed, wearing a suit. Everything suddenly comes back to him in a rush: _Sam. He smells good. Fucked up parallel universe. Stuck here. Hotel room. Murderer to catch._ _Shit._ "What time is it?" He rubs his eyes, trying to wake up.

"Just after six. I need to be at the station soon."

Stephen yawns and pushes himself up. He must have been exhausted enough to sleep through Sam showering and dressing, which is unusual for him. Once he'd finally fallen asleep, he'd been completely out. Probably because he's pain free for the first time in three years—the only benefit of being stuck here so far.

He looks down at himself. He's still wearing the same t-shirt and torn scrubs he had on yesterday. He really looks like shit.

Sam must have noticed that, too. "Sorry, man. I don't have any pants that would fit you. We'll have to pick something up later." He backs away quickly when Stephen stands up, and retreats to the other side of their tiny room.

"That's okay," Stephen says. He glances at the other man curiously. Sam doesn't seem to want to get near him. He must smell really bad. "Do I have time to take a shower?"

"Yeah. If you're quick."

And something to eat, Stephen thinks. He's starving.

 

***

 

After the short drive to the police station, they sit in the parking lot while Sam tries to find something in his unorganized briefcase. 

Stephen stares out the window, waiting. He feels better after his shower, but he's still starving. Sam had insisted there wasn't enough time for him to get something to eat. Just half a cup of shitty hotel coffee. But now they're just sitting here.

He blinks out at the sunrise—pink clouds against a brightening blue sky, a band of intense orange just over the rooftops of the buildings. He wonders if it looks the same in his world right now, decides that would be unlikely. Considering all of the random variables that had to come together just right to make the sky look exactly like this... _The same cloud pattern, wind, moisture, temperature_... How could it possibly be the same? 

The church across the street from the police station catches his eye. Stephen had assumed it was a mosque at first. There's no central spire, just a series of domes in a stepped pattern, morning sunlight dripping like honey over the tops. Yet, the stained glass windows and the building material—limestone blocks—have a distinctly Christian feel.

"Where the fuck...? I swear I grabbed that..." Sam is still muttering to himself. "There it is. Thank fuck..." Finally, he notices what Stephen's looking at. "It's a Firster's church. Order of the First Body." He says it carefully, like he's waiting for Stephen to freak out.

"Huh..." It still doesn't mean anything to him. His other self seems calm inside his head, too. The sight of this church isn't enough to stir up any more memories. Apparently, bizarro universe Stephen has gotten past this.

Normal universe Stephen is still curious, though. "What's the symbol on the top?" There's no cross, just an orb made of polished brass or gold.

"The round thing?"

"Yeah."

"That's supposed to represent the earth. It's the symbol of the First Mother. She's from the First Book—kind of a creation story."

"Remind me how that goes..."

Sam puts down the stack of papers he's fiddling with. "Uh, let's see... The Goddess—she either created the earth or she _is_ the earth, depending on how you interpret it—she made the First Mother in her image. Put her in the Garden, where everything was perfect. She had two sons, twins. Named them Abel and Cain. Abel was a good son and did everything his momma asked him to, but Cain was lazy and kind of an asshole. He didn't want to serve the Mother and was pissed at all the attention his brother got. He ruined the Garden somehow—can't remember what he did exactly. Gave some forbidden fruit to his brother so he'd get in trouble or something. So the Goddess punished him by cursing him and all of his descendants to serve both the Mother and the good son forever. And that's where alpha and omega males come from."

"Sounds plausible."

Sam chuckles. "The fucked up thing is how many people still believe that shit. _Literally_."

Stephen remembers all of the other places he's seen the orb— _the earth, apparently_ —often accompanied by the sun and a crescent moon. "So, the earth is a symbol for women...?"

"Yeah, some people believe that all women are direct descendants of the First Mother. It's part of some old symbology... The earth represents women. Bearer of life, and all that. The sun symbolizes alpha males—fierce, bright and hot-tempered. The moon represents omega males—always changing, beholden to both the sun and earth. Or some bullshit like that... I was raised Christian, myself. So I'm not too well versed in that stuff. Useful for my work sometimes, though."

Stephen frowns. He'd dreamt about the moon last night, he remembers. The prairie in winter—it looked like Nebraska. An eclipse. He doesn't remember ever seeing one like it as a kid. He wonders if those are memories or just something he'd imagined. 

Dreams can be important, he knows. Wong would tell him to remember it, write it down. Figure out what it means. He's not even sure anymore if it was his dream.

 

***

 

Sam's temporary office is almost, but not quite, big enough to hold all of the files on the murders. 

"This is it." He sets his bag down on the table, takes his laptop out. "The best they could do on such short notice. It's a small department."

Stephen looks around. This must have been a conference room until yesterday. Only a few of the files are out on the table. The rest are in boxes that are piled randomly around the small room.

"Coffee?" Sam asks.

"Definitely."

An hour later, Stephen's halfway through his third cup, and they've managed to make an even bigger mess in the small room. Sam is still typing away on his laptop, occasionally consulting a stack of papers next to him. Stephen has taken advantage of the large table to spread the files from the most recent murders out into various stacks, sort through the reports and crime scene photos.

Sam eventually looks up and frowns at the mess. "Don't lose any of those. Some are originals."

Stephen nods absently. He'd done a lot of thinking about this last night, when he was having trouble sleeping. "We know the victims aren't random. Each has a double who exists in my world, and who lives nearby."

"Is that unusual?"

"Possibly. Parallel universes are independent in a lot of ways. There's no reason to suspect that everyone exists simultaneously in both worlds. Not everyone is born in both worlds. It's all due to random chance. And not everyone dies in both worlds. If I die in my world, my counterpart here doesn't suddenly drop dead."

Sam is skeptical. "I exist. You exist. If what you say is true, then how come both of you are doctors? You're even both neurosurgeons. You claim that you had different experiences when you were kids, so how come both of you chose the same career, with the same specialty?"

"We're still the same person, in a lot of ways. Maybe that's just what both of us were drawn to. Anyway... I'm not a doctor anymore. He is. Our lives have diverged." These are all interesting questions, but they don't really have time to debate them right now. "The point is, the killer knows these women exist in both worlds, and he chooses them, at least in part, based on that. So the question is... How does he know?"

Sam shrugs. "Hey, man. That's your area."

Stephen frowns. He can only make an educated guess right now. He tries to imagine how he would do it, if he was the one trying to figure out who had a nearby double in a parallel universe. He's pretty sure he would have to get close to someone to know something like that, establish some kind of connection with them. Very close. The closer the better. 

He takes a sip of his coffee. Three cups on an empty stomach is probably edging into dangerous territory, but he can't help himself. He needs the high to help him think right now. He doesn't have much go on. If his connection with the killer was a just a little better, he might actually get something useful. But so far, it's just been vague impressions. Nothing substantial.

He sifts through the files for a while, trying to find anything that might be a pattern. Although if the FBI hasn't found one yet, he doubts he can do much better. Stephen runs his hands down his face, feeling just the slightest hint of stubble. Apparently, he could grow a beard here if he wanted to, but it might take a while. He hopes he doesn't have to find out how long...

 _Focus_. Find a pattern.... All women—that's the most obvious one. Most had children—sometimes quite a few, based on their files. Something's curiously missing... "None of the victims were married?" he asks.

Sam looks up from the laptop on the table, narrows his eyes at him. "What's 'married'?"

They must not do that here... "Uh, it means with a partner, sort of permanently."

"You mean bonded." Sam shakes his head. "No. None of the victims had a bond-mate."

"Is that unusual?" He's at a major cultural disadvantage here.

Sam shrugs. "Not really. Most women don't have them. It's kind of old-fashioned." Sam considers him for a moment. "If you're looking for patterns, good luck... We haven't found any. The only thing that stands out is that most of the victims were well-off. A couple were wealthy. That's about it. Different cities, different jobs, the hired help have no connections... Nothing in common, as far as we can tell."

Stephen frowns at the files on the table. He takes another sip of his coffee, but it's gone cold. He grimaces. "What about this one?" He pulls out a file he's set aside. "Lucy Bates?" He remembers her from his world—a body at the first crime scene he'd visited. At the Warwick Hotel in Peekskill.

"What about her?"

"Her autopsy says she was four-months pregnant. Did that go anywhere?"

Sam blows out a long breath. "Let's see. Lucy Bates, thirty-three, CEO of First National Insurance. Killed at the Warwick Hotel in Peekskill, October 31st of last year..."

"She was a teacher..."

"What's that?" Sam looks up at him.

"In my world... she was an elementary school teacher." _Her hair was blond and had been pulled back into a braid, she was wearing an old cardigan with a little button still on it—something her kids must have given her. A smiling apple with 'World's Best Teacher' around it. Her throat had been slit. Her blood on the floor and the wall..._

Sam is watching him, waiting. Stephen shakes his head. "Sorry. Go on..."

"DNA testing on the fetus yielded a partial match to an alpha named Max Fulton, who was already in our database. That turned out to be a dead end—he was incarcerated in New Jersey at the time of the murder. Some kind of money laundering charge. I tried to get a warrant to check the DNA of the surviving children of the other victims. You know... Just in case there was some connection between their fathers. Had no luck with that. No judge is going to risk violating the rights of children on an FBI agent's hunch. No luck asking the adult children, either—they weren't interested."

 _Shit_. That pretty much obliterated the rest of his great ideas. _Still_... There has to be some connection between the killer and his victims. How else would he get close enough to know they had doubles. All of them have been women... The spell doesn't care what sex they are, so this must be important.

Stephen decides to take a chance... "I don't think the murderer is an alpha."

Sam looks up from his laptop. "Why would you say that?"

"He needs a close connection to the victims to figure out if they have a double in my world." Sam opens his mouth, but Stephen cuts him off. "Sure, he can see into my world by possessing people, and he could figure it out that way somehow. But I don't think that's what he's doing. I don't think he can stay in my world for very long. I think it takes a lot of energy. And it would take too much time to look up each possible victim. It's just a hunch, but I'm pretty sure I'm right."

Sam snorts. "Are you ever not sure you're right?"

Stephen glares at him. "Sometimes. Now, look... He has a lifestyle that gets him close to a lot of different women. Not everyone he meets is going to fit his criteria, of course, but he's found enough victims for his plan so far. He has a system. It's working for him. Now, if I'm right, most alphas don't have close relationships with women. Beyond professional associations." He waits for Sam to confirm.

Sam is still doubtful. "That's true... But some women prefer to mate with alphas."

"Is that common?"

"No," Sam concedes. "Actually, it's illegal in some states, considered sodomy."

This fucking place...

"Women also have close associations with other women," Sam points out. "We call those 'friends' here."

 _Smart ass_. "What about omegas?"

"What about them?"

"Stop being difficult. You know what I'm asking."

Sam stretches back in his chair. "Omegas are more likely than alphas to have close associations with women. That's true. But an omega doesn't fit the profile of our killer."

"Why not?"

"It would be extremely unusual. In the history of crime, I can think of maybe one serial killer who was an omega."

"This guy's not a serial killer. The pattern of victims looks the same, but he's killing them for a reason."

Sam shrugs. "He _thinks_ he has a reason."

Semantics... And arguing about this isn't helping. "Women who are interested in having children, or just having fun... How do they meet omegas?" He's at a serious disadvantage, not knowing about the culture here.

Sam gives him an appraising look. "You're really thinking the connection the killer has with all of these women is sexual? He's had sex with them?"

"Or a longer relationship... There's no other reason for the victims to all be women. The spell would work just as well if he chose to use alphas or omegas, or all three sexes. He needs a connection to the victims, a way to get close to them. This has to be it."

"Women are smaller, easier to overpower," Sam points out.

"So are omegas. To an alpha." Everything he's seen here so far suggests that.

"True." 

They're getting off track again. "So... women," Stephen prompts. "How do they meet omegas?"

"Well, there are several ways, depending on what she wanted. To have a kid, she might go to a government service that provides a fertile omega. Generally, that's something used by women with lower incomes than our victims. There are private institutions that offer the same service—that would be more their style. We've already checked both of these. None of our victims were clients. Or she could go to a fertility clinic if she didn't want to do it the old-fashioned way. It's expensive, and—"

Stephen waves that off, impatiently. "It's not that."

" _Or_..." Sam gives him an annoyed look. "She could just meet someone like normal people do. Especially if she just wanted to have a good time."

Stephen remembers Jack, with the fake tattoos and the make-up. "What about a... a sex worker? Do women use them?"

Sam lifts an eyebrow. "Of course they do. That's another possibility. And that's my point—there are too many possibilities. There's no way we can know who this omega is, based on the fact that all of our victims have had sex with omegas. Because most women have had sex with omegas. And we've already looked for any connections there. We don't even know if he _is_ an omega."

Stephen slumps down in his chair and scowls at the ceiling. Sam's right, of course—they just don't have enough to go on.

"Look... If we had some other evidence that our killer was an omega, I might have more leverage to push for those warrants to get that DNA. But I don't. Right now, these victims look random. And, unfortunately, I can't take your crazy doubles theory to a judge."

"It's not crazy," Stephen says mildly.

Sam gets up and stretches, lifting his arms up high. Stephen tries not to stare at him.

"Still don't have the ME's report for our victim yesterday," Sam says. "She swears she'll get it to me by the end of the day. Could be something there..."

Stephen grunts. He's not optimistic...

"In the meantime..." Sam grabs a another stack of files out of a cardboard box on the floor and drops them on the desk in front of Stephen. "Tell me why you think these old ass cases are the same guy. And not just the guy that our killer is copying."

Stephen slides one off the top, opens it up. It's the original case from 1917, during the heyday of the Warwick Hotel. The murder of a prostitute—only, here she was the owner of a tavern, according to the report. He pulls a few copies of the old black and white photos out. They look almost identical to the photos Detective García had shown him. Almost the same as the photos of Lucy Bates, who was killed in the same hotel room one hundred years later.

Stephen sifts through the rest of the stack. There are files on murders from 1922, two from 1932, and another from 1933. And then nothing until the murders start again in the mid-nineties. Only, the police hadn't made the connection until Lucy Bates' murder in 2017. It's the same pattern from his world. He's already got it memorized, along with the names of all of the victims, and the innocent people convicted of their murders.

Sam leans over Stephen's shoulder to see what he's looking at. Stephen finds his scent interesting today—a little spicier and a little sharper than he remembers from yesterday. But, somehow, even more attractive. He has a sudden urge to turn his head and smell Sam.

Stephen swallows hard. "We, uh, assumed he was a Sorcerer. Because of the spells he left behind. They—I mean, _we_ —can live a long time. A lifespan of two hundred years or more isn't unusual." Stephen smiles to himself. He'll have to remember to ask Wong how old he is. Maybe when he gets back... "And, uh, at the time, we had no idea he wasn't from our world. So we didn't question that it was the same killer."

"And what do you think now?" Sam's voice is so low, Stephen can almost feel it rumbling in his chest. His scent is hanging heavy in the air, making it hard to think. Stephen wonders if he's doing it on purpose.

"It's—uh, it's the same guy." Another gut feeling, but he's sure about this. "The spells are so bizarre. They all have the same odd syntax that... that makes no sense. It's, uh, hard to explain. You would only notice if you were a Sorcerer." He clears his throat. "And he _is_ a Sorcerer. I'm absolutely sure now. You _do_ have magic here—it just follows different rules. And now I need to, uh... I need to..." Stephen closes his eyes, tries to calm his breathing.

"Yeah?"

 _Gods..._ Stephen can feel the man's breath on the side of his neck now. "I need to, uh... to use the bathroom."

What he really needs to do is get away from Sam Wilson before he does something stupid.

  

***

 

The omega bathroom—the only one in the police station—is just a normal men's room, as far as Stephen can tell. He splashes cold water on his face and tries to calm down.

He stares at himself in the mirror. His face looks thinner without a goatee, he thinks. His hair is just a little too long—long enough that the curls are getting uncontrollable. He needs a haircut. 

It's normal here, he reminds himself, to be attracted to Sam Wilson. Omegas are the sexual conduit, apparently, between alphas and women. It's only natural that he feels some of that. He's in a body with an entirely new set of organs, new hormones. That's going to affect how he feels about men. And Sam is a good-looking man.

It's just... not helpful right now. A distraction. The case is what matters—catching this psychotic asshole. And then finding a way back home.

He makes one more attempt to smooth his hair down, gives up, and then heads back to Sam's conference room.

The bathroom is in a wing that seems to contain administrative offices. Most of them are empty, however. Stephen abruptly realizes that it's Sunday morning. He's been trapped here for two days now. For some reason, it seems longer.

He makes it only a few feet down the hall, when a door opens somewhere behind him.

"Hey, you! Hold on. I wanna talk to you." It's the detective from yesterday with the sallow, rat-like face. The one who'd insinuated that he'd wanted a blow-job as Stephen walked past. Stephen doesn't know his name, he just knows he's a dick. And he really doesn't want to talk to him.

Stephen hesitates. He should get back to Sam, but this man is a cop, and he's in a police station. Not under arrest exactly, but... he's come to realize that even as a free civilian, he doesn't have a lot of rights here. He's not sure if he has to do what the detective says.

He decides to play it safe. "Yes?" He stops and waits patiently for the guy to catch up with him.

The man jogs over. His beige suit doesn't fit him right—it's too big, and hangs loose on his body. He might be as tall as Stephen. Hard to tell when the other man is wearing shoes, and he's not. That old-paper smell is back. It's not terribly unpleasant, Stephen thinks. Not as bad as some of the people he's smelled.

"I hear you're helping Agent Wilson with our serial case..."

"Yes. I am." He's not sure how much he should say about it.

It doesn't matter, though. This guy doesn't seem interested in the case. "Great, that's great." The man chuckles. "Maybe you could, ah, help me out sometime, too... If, uh, Agent Wilson doesn't need you right now. I have some ideas... We could head back to my office, and, uh..." His eyes keep straying away from Stephen's face, down to his body.

Stephen frowns. It's taken him way too long to realize this guy is coming on to him. Of course he is... "Sorry, I'm not interested." He turns and starts back down the hall.

"Woah, hey! Hold on..." The detective catches up and gets in front of him. "Hey, beautiful. What's the rush? I just wanna talk."

Stephen doesn't want to talk. Not at all. He scowls and tries to step around the detective, but the other man blocks his way. 

"Hey now! Why you gotta be like this, huh? Someone treat you bad, honey? Is that it? You don't have to get an attitude with me. I just wanna talk." His voice is low and intimate. _Irritating_.

Stephen looks him up and down, and wrinkles his nose. The man's smell—now strong and sharp, like ammonia—is doing weird things to his head. "No thanks," he says. He side-steps again, and the guy moves to get in his way again. Now he's pissed off. Why can't this asshole take a hint?

The detective holds up his hands when Stephen makes another attempt to go past him. Not touching him. Not yet... "Woah, woah... Hold on, now. Just calm down. We're just talkin', huh? Everything's okay..." His voice has gone gentle, like he's trying to soothe an animal. It just pisses Stephen off more.

 _Fuck_. He realizes suddenly that he's effectively trapped here. He can't get around the detective without putting a hand on him, and that would be assaulting a police officer. This asshole knows it too. 

There aren't any good options, so Stephen decides to just wait him out. Sam will eventually come looking for him, he figures. Until then he'll just have to try to keep this guy's hands off him. Hopefully, without resorting to violence...

The detective has noticed he's stopped trying to get away. He decides to press his advantage and sidles closer. "You're all right, huh? Aren't you, beautiful?" Too close. His smell is suddenly overwhelming.

Stephen clenches his hand into a fist, tightens his jaw. He really doesn't want to do this...

The closer the man gets, though, the less Stephen feels like punching him. An odd sleepiness has come over him. The man's pheromones, he realizes. They're so strong. Stronger than anything he's smelled on Sam or any other person so far. The closer the man gets, the worse it gets, until he's dizzy. _Shit_. He'd forgotten about that... He needs to get out of here...

Before he can act, the smell triggers another memory, more vivid than anything he's experienced before... 

_He's outside, at the edge of a field full of late summer corn. The stalks tower over his head, swaying gently in the breeze. It's hot, and he's sweating. Peter's standing in front of him, shirt off. His broad shoulders are tanned a deep brown from working in the sun all summer. He's just a few years older than Stephen, and an alpha. And he smells so good. Stephen knows what that means now, and he's nervous, but not afraid—Peter's never hurt him before. Not like some of the others... He reaches out and touches Stephen's face softly. "Look how tall you've gotten," he says. "You're all grown up." Stephen closes his eyes and lets Peter lead him into the corn..._

"Hey... Hey, you're all right..." The detective's voice is coming from just a few inches away now. Stephen opens his eyes again—hadn't been aware that he'd shut them in the first place—and the man is right there. He takes a deep breath and his head swims. He feels completely at ease all of a sudden, euphoric almost. He sags against the detective, who holds him up. "That's it, that's it, beautiful... Let's go someplace more private..."

He tries to pull away from the detective's grasp, but his vision suddenly darkens and he stumbles. He can feel his consciousness being tugged somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Toward the mind of the killer...

 _No! Not now_ , he thinks. _Fuck!_

He can't stop it, though—he needs to see this. Stephen reluctantly lets go of his body and allows himself to be swept away to...

_A large empty space. It's dark inside. Wooden shipping crates are stacked along the walls. The floor is old concrete, stained with grease and oil. He knows this place. The warehouse in Syracuse. He's been here before, many times... to do this._

_He drags the woman over to the spot. His spot. She's unconscious now after putting up a fight, but harder to move this way—a dead weight. He has to concentrate so hard to keep control. Focus on what he's doing here, and in the Other Place. Sweat pours down the back of his neck, makes his hands slick inside the gloves. He's so close now, and he's been so patient... He can't afford another disaster, not like the last time._

_He's so close! So close... He's nothing here—just a slave to them. These bitches... But soon, he can be so much more..._

_Finally! He's here. He drops the woman's arms, and leans over to catch his breath. And then he reaches into his bag, pulls out the knife. Almost done..._

The connection between them snaps like a thread. And then Stephen is back in his own body, standing in a room. Some kind of break room, maybe. He's leaning against a counter, and the detective is pressed up tight against him. Doing... _something_.

He blinks at the bright fluorescent lights surrounding him, still reeling from the vision. It's so hard to think right now... He can feel something happening to him. He's not sure what, but it feels good... Stephen tries to look down, but the man's head is in the way, face pressed against his neck. He's so confused it takes him a few more moments to figure out the man has a hand down his pants, stroking his half-hard penis.

He panics when he finally realizes what's happening. "What... what are you...? _Stop_..." He can barely speak.

Stephen tries to buck him off, and the man leans in and bites his neck. And that... _Oh, that feels good_. He groans and tips his head back, exposing more of his throat. The man presses him harder into the edge of the counter, panting hot against his neck.

Another bite, and his mind goes blank again. When he comes back to himself, even more time has passed. Why is this happening? He can't even remember how he got here...

At least the detective has given up trying to get him off. Instead, he's rubbing the bulge in his own pants against Stephen's thigh.

"That's it, beautiful. I have an idea... How 'bout we try it like this..." The man squeezes hard on the nape of his neck and pushes him down. Stephen folds obediently to the floor.

"You look so good like that. On your knees. Doesn't that feel good?" the man croons. "Saw your tattoos... Someone must have trained you right, huh? Taught you how to treat an alpha... Why don't you show me what you learned? Bet you're good at this..."

But he's having trouble undoing his belt and opening his pants with one hand. The man's grip on the back of his neck slips a little, and Stephen's thoughts clear just enough to realize what's about to happen. He doesn't want this. There's something he has to do...

The detective keeps talking. "Come on, beautiful. That's it..." He sounds out of breath. His pants are open now, and he has his erect cock out in his hand, stroking it.

Stephen can't do anything but stare at it. He'd forgotten how fucking weird alpha penises are—far too long and thin, with an odd, bulbous glans. He knows the whole thing only becomes completely engorged once it's inside someone. And he really doesn't want that to be him. He panics and tries to pull away.

"Easy. Easy, now." The man grabs Stephen's neck hard, and tugs his head forward toward his crotch. Stephen can smell his arousal, so much more intense now, it's hard to draw in a full breath. The chemicals are filling his head, making him _want_. But this man doesn't smell right. He doesn't smell like Sam...

 _Sam_. He needs to find Sam. The killer— _the warehouse_ —he's going to... He's already... Oh, fuck!  _They need to hurry!_

That thought seems to be enough to break the hold the pheromones have over him. Stephen wakes up and twists his head to the side just as the man tries to shove his dick in his mouth. He knows, somehow, that if the detective manages to get inside him he won't be able to get away.

"Hey, come on, honey... Come on, open up," he whines. The detective pushes Stephen's head back against the cabinets and straddles him, tries to brace his face against his thigh to keep him from turning away. But he's having trouble managing everything at once. He has to let go of Stephen's neck to try to force his mouth open, and that's enough to break whatever spell Stephen's under.

He's still too dizzy and weak to get up or push this asshole off of him. _But what if...?_ He clenches his jaw tight as the man tries to wedge his teeth apart, and looks around for something— _anything!_ —that might work as a distraction.

There's a huge coffee machine on the counter, perched right on the edge. Stephen concentrates as hard as he can and tips the whole thing over onto the floor.

The detective jumps away from him at the crash, spinning wildly. "What the _fuck...!?_ How in the hell..."

When he turns around again, Stephen punches him square in the jaw, sending him tripping over the fallen coffee machine and to the ground. The man puts a hand to his face, eyes wide and stunned, like he can't understand what just happened.

Stephen winces and shakes out his hand. "I told you to fuck off," he rasps.

 

***

 

The long drive to Syracuse is tense, and not just because they're on their way to yet another murder.

Sam had called the local police in Syracuse to get someone out to the warehouse on Luddington Street as soon as possible, but it was already too late. A woman's body was found there. She'd been murdered at least two hours earlier, according to the  medical examiner at the scene. The vision had been old, after all. _Useless_...

Stephen sits, seething, in the backseat. His hands are cuffed behind him again. Even Sam had insisted on it. Sam. _The_   _asshole_ , he thinks. How could he have ever thought he'd be able to trust this man? Even his really fantastic smell can't make up for the fact that he's a dick. Just like the rest of them...

Sam glances back at him again, eyes stern. "Look..." 

"I don't want to talk right now," Stephen snaps. 

Sam sighs dramatically, like he's the one who's been wronged here. "You just have to think before you pull shit like that. You can't punch an alpha—it's illegal. Unless you legitimately fear for your life, and there's no way you can spin that in this case. I know you had a—a... _vision_ or something _..._ And you panicked. But you should have just told Arnold what you'd seen. He would've stopped. The man might be a dick, but he's a cop first and foremost. He wants to catch this motherfucker just as much as I do." Sam shakes his head. "But to just haul off and punch a senior detective in the face, in a fucking police station... Even I can't help you when you blatantly break the law like that."

Oh. Apparently they're going to have a conversation whether he wants to or not. Stephen glares at Sam in the rear-view mirror, but the other man is now watching the road. His head hurts and he doesn't feel like arguing right now. He stays silent, hoping Sam will take the hint.

But he doesn't. "Look..." Sam starts again, voice soothing and understanding. And Stephen wants to punch him, too. "I know with your history, it's easy to misinterpret other people's intentions. Especially alphas. Arnold is a complete asshole, but he wasn't going to hurt you. He just got carried away. Happens to the best of us. You're lucky he decided not to press charges."

Now he has to say something... "He got _carried away?_ " Stephen can't believe what he's hearing. "The man was about to shove his dick down my throat!" he shouts.

Sam actually winces. "Yes, he came on to you. He wants you. Alphas pursue omegas. And they're aggressive sometimes. That's just how it's done here. I know you don't understand, but... Nothing he did was illegal."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Sam's completely reasonable tone is driving him mad. " _That_ wasn't illegal? He stuck his hand down my pants after I told him to stop! He tried to jerk me off! I didn't want it, and he tried to force me... What the fuck is rape, then? I know you have at least some idea of that concept here—I've heard you use the word."

Sam keeps his voice mild. "The statutes vary from state to state. Here, there would need to proof that an alpha penetrated and ejaculated inside an omega against the omega's wishes. But that's hard to prove. So it usually requires evidence that some kind of physical force or restraint was used to meet the requirements. And if the omega is in heat, then it's not rape. New York is more progressive than most—many states don't even recognize rape as a crime that can be committed against an omega."

"That's extremely fucked up..." He should just stop asking questions. The more he hears, the more he wants this world to burn. "What about an alpha forcing himself on a woman?"

"That meets the federal definition for rape. Also, it could be assault with intent to cause great bodily harm—a woman could be injured by an alpha in rut."

Stephen doesn't say anything, so Sam continues. "I don't always agree with the laws as they are, but I have to uphold them. It's my job. What happened to you before... when you were a kid... That was fucked up and wrong. And it should have been illegal. That was rape. But an overzealous alpha showing interest in an omega he finds attractive? You just can't equate those two things. What happened to you today wasn't even close." He shakes his head again, disappointed. "I don't understand why you had to go and punch him..." 

"Fuck you," Stephen mutters. He's already decided that when they get to Syracuse, he's going to escape somehow and figure this out on his own. Consequences be damned.

Sam doesn't say anything, but the smell in the car gets stronger suddenly—a soothing wave that quickly becomes overpowering. Stephen doesn't want to be calm right now, he wants to be fucking angry. Because everything about this place is fucked up.

"Stop it," he growls. He can't open the damn window with his hands cuffed behind his back. He tries using magic to do it, but forcing a tiny button down is a lot harder than throwing shit around. His head starts to hurt before anything useful happens. The more agitated he becomes, the more Sam's pheromones seep into his body. Breathing through his mouth doesn't seem to help, either. There's just no escape from it.

Stephen finally slams his head back against the seat in frustration and closes his eyes, breathes deeply. Giving up. Forced calmness washes over him, and he slumps down into the backseat. It almost feels like more of a violation than what happened in the break room, because this time it's Sam doing it. 

Sam waits a few more minutes before speaking. "Feel better?"

"No," Stephen croaks. He doesn't feel better—he just feels defeated. He wants out of this world. Right now.

"I'll take the cuffs off the next time we stop, if you can control yourself. Otherwise, I'm leaving them on." His voice grows softer. "I'm not trying to upset you. It's just... you're sending out mixed signals. And I know for a fact that some part of you must have been into it—I could smell it on you. Everyone could. I know Arnold pushed you hard. Too hard, maybe... And he shouldn't have done that. But some of this is down to you. You have to consider how alphas are going to respond to you, especially with the way you've been acting."

That's the worst part, Stephen thinks, that he was going to let that asshole do whatever he wanted. Would have probably enjoyed it, too. He remembers how good the teeth on his neck had felt, how he'd wanted more of that... Shame flushes hot in his cheeks.

Stephen opens his eyes. Sam is watching him again. "Are you trying to say I was asking for it?" he says quietly. Maybe he was... He doesn't care anymore—he's just tired now.

"No, that's not what I'm saying. Don't twist my words around." Sam sighs. "It's just... it's hard to explain. But the way you smell... it's not submissive at all. You smell... _confident_. And you look people in the eye and just... don't act like an omega." Sam clears his throat. "To some alphas that's a huge turn on. And to others, it's kind of a challenge, and they feel the need to dominate you. And those two things are the same for a lot of us. Plus... you have a—a nice body, and you're tall for an omega. A lot of people are going to respond to that."

Stephen senses weakness. "Even you?"

Sam glances back at him in the mirror. "Yeah. Even me." He nods almost to himself, like he's acknowledging that for the first time. "But I wouldn't do that to you. Take advantage like that. You can trust me. I hope you know that..."

Stephen snorts. Sam, thankfully, doesn't reply. And they drive for a long time in silence.

Stephen stares at the back of Sam's head, and wonders how he can possibly trust a man who would overpower him without a second thought.

 

***

 

A uniformed officer waves them through into the industrial complex when they reach Luddington Street. 

This place looks almost identical to the crime scene photos Stephen's seen before. From 1998, the murder of Stacy Marko, homemaker, mother of three boys. Hulking gray buildings, sheet metal siding. Heaps of scrap metal sorted into tangled piles. Weeds and spring grasses pushing up through cracks in the asphalt. The area between the buildings is crowded with police cruisers and officers milling about.

The closer they get, the more agitated Stephen becomes. A familiar sickening dread rushes through him—the unmistakable feeling of a recent violent death. But more than that... _Magic_. Strong magic. The spell—it's working. He can't tell what it's doing exactly, but it's making his teeth hurt. 

And something else... Cold fear makes his heart lurch. " _Oh... oh, shit._.." he breathes. The world suddenly twists sideways and then...

_He's high above them, silent, watching. A shadow. A ghost. Invisible to the mortals below. He watches as a technician of some sort takes photos of his latest creation. Another cop sticks a marker next to the spell, wrecking the symmetry. His strongest magic, yet. He wishes he'd had the chance to savor it... Anger surges through him. How did they know? How did they find it so quickly?  
_

_He waits and watches. He needs to understand how they knew..._

Stephen snaps back into his body, practically hyperventilating.

Sam is leaning down in the open door next to him, concern in his eyes. "Hey. Stephen? What's wrong? Hey, man..."

"He's here..."

"What's that?"

"The killer. He's here. He's watching the scene."

" _Where?_ " Sam's intense look is back.

"I—I can't tell. Somewhere up high, but not on the roof. He's still inside the building."

Sam straightens up and waves urgently at a woman in a pantsuit across the parking lot. Another FBI agent, Stephen realizes. She starts to hurry over. Sam stabs a finger at Stephen. "Stay there. Don't move."

"Sam. Wait! I need to—"

Sam slams the car door in his face and jogs over to meet the other agent. The two of them confer for a moment with a detective and a few uniformed cops. Stephen can feel activity starting up around them. The detective speaks into her hand-held radio and rushes off. Sam pulls out his gun and nods to the other agent. The two of them head off behind the building, followed by the other cops. 

" _Damn it_ ," Stephen mutters. He pulls at the cuffs. They're in front now, and he can already see they're too tight to slip. He could open the door and walk out, of course, but he'd probably get shot right now.

He growls in frustration _. Fuck_. He needs to know what's happening out there. A few minutes pass with nothing. He can't see anything from here. _But maybe_... Stephen closes his eyes and tries to find the killer's mind again. It's easy now...

_Someone's following him. One of the pigs must have smelled him when he moved. A damn alpha, judging by the stink coming off of him. He has to be careful now to stay downwind. He finds a good spot—a cave. A hole. No one can see him in here. No one can smell him in here. His hand closes around a brick. The pig is climbing the stairs below him now. Wait. Be patient..._

_Fuck._ He's going to kill someone. Adrenaline rushes through him, making him sick. Stephen tries not to panic. He can't let that happen.

He needs his hands free. He has a spell that can change solid matter into a gas. He's used it before to get out of handcuffs. It's a little awkward to draw the shapes in the air with his hands stuck together, but he manages. Doesn't matter, though—nothing happens. Not a single spark of magic. It's just not going to work here.

 _Shit_. He's completely cut off from all of his usual sources of dimensional energy. Unfortunately, the energy here is just too wild to work with, and it would take him too long to figure out how to alter the spell to use it. He can use a living thing as an energy source, though. That would be an easy change.

No one else close, pigeons and rats don't have enough—he'll have to use himself. 

The gestures are almost the same, just a slight modification to the last sweep of his hand. And he knows right away that it's working. The draw on his body's energy is immediate. _And painful._ It feels a little like being punched in the gut. " _Fuck_ ," he gasps, doubling over. This might have been a mistake. But at least the cuffs slip off his hands and fall to the ground.

He straightens up and fumbles with the door handle for a moment before shoving it open. He still doesn't want to get shot. Fortunately, all of the police attention seems focused on the building now. The wrong building... He stumbles out of the car and stays low, crouched down and out of sight. He has to close his eyes for a moment to orient himself. 

 _That way_... The taller building next door, with the open loading bay. He can feel the killer in there, tense and waiting, coiled like a spring.  _Watching the FBI agent. The black one. The alpha... The pig hasn't seen him or smelled him yet, but he's almost close enough now. Right underneath..._

 _Sam!_  

Stephen lurches to his feet and runs toward the building. He drops down behind a low wall, panting, when a cop suddenly appears from around the corner. She doesn't notice him, and he waits until she hurries past. Another short sprint and he's there. He presses himself back against the wall just inside the loading dock, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sudden gloom. His heart is pounding and he's already out of breath. 

 _Shit_. Sam... Where is he? He can't see anything in here. There's a bunch of industrial equipment— _pipes and metal tanks, boilers maybe?_ —obscuring his view. 

He can't feel Sam either, but he can smell him faintly, somewhere in here. There's a sound above him—footsteps on metal. Stephen looks up. Sam is walking slowly along a walkway one floor above him, gun drawn.

A dark shape moves on the landing above. A man's shape, a brick in his hand. He leans out over the edge, holds the brick out directly above Sam's head. 

" _No!_ " Stephen shoves as much energy as he can grab at the killer. The man loses his hold on the brick and flies backward out of sight. Sam whirls around and ducks just as the brick comes down, grazing the side of the head.

" _Fuck_..." Stephen loses his balance and falls back against the wall, clutching his head. Something's wrong with his eyes—he can't see anything.  _Sam... He needs to make sure Sam's all right..._ He can hear shouting and people running. The sound of radios crackling. The smells of a lot of people, the bitter tang of adrenaline in the air. He slides down the wall and lands hard on the ground. The sounds fade away to nothing.

 

***

 

And then he can hear again.

"Hey, Stephen. Wake up. Come on..." Sam's worried voice. Sam's okay, he realizes. Stephen almost sobs with relief.

He tries to force his eyes open, but it hurts too much. "Sam?" He's not sure if this is a dream.

"Yeah, it's me. You're okay, you're okay. Don't try to move right now. An ambulance is on the way. What happened to you?"

"Used too much magic..." he mumbles. _Gods, it hurts._ But he has to see...

Despite the pain, Stephen manages to crack one eye open. Light stabs at him. He can see again. A blurry shape above him eventually resolves into a face. Sam's face. He's got a nasty wound above his left ear. _Bleeding a lot, doesn't look too deep_... Stephen tries to reach up for him. "Your head..." _The brick_ , he remembers.

Sam chuckles and pushes his arm back down, holds onto his hand. "Stop trying to move, you ass. I'm fine. Didn't even pass out. He didn't get me." His phone rings and he pulls it out. "Yeah. Second building. The tall one. Yeah, that's right. Just let me know." He shoves it back into his jacket. Someone comes up behind him—the other FBI agent, phone to her ear.

Sam looks up at her and she shakes her head. "Nothing yet."

" _Motherfucker_ ," Sam mutters. He turns back to Stephen, squeezes his hand. "We didn't get him."

 _Gods damn it_... He closes his eyes and drops back down into oblivion. 

 

***

 

He comes around again to the familiar smell of a hospital.

 _Oh, fuck._.. Stephen reaches up and grabs at his head. It really hurts. He opens his eyes carefully, but the light doesn't cause too much pain this time. He must have used too much force when he'd shoved the killer. That, plus the trick with the cuffs, had drained him. The magical backlash is much more severe here. He keeps forgetting that.

When the blurriness fades, he takes a careful look around. ER cubicle. As familiar here as it is at home. He's wearing only a hospital gown, but there are no monitors attached and no pain anywhere else, as far as he can tell, so he must be fine. An IV line in the back of his left wrist. Bag of glucose hanging from the pole. _Low blood sugar_ , he thinks. Hospital bracelet with his correct name and birthdate. His hand trembles when he tries to read it—another symptom of hypoglycemia. He wonders how they got all of his information... The ID card in his wallet, he remembers. Or Sam told them.

 _Sam_... He knows Sam is all right, he'd seen him, talked to him. He must be around, somewhere. _Gods_ , they came so close! They almost had him— _the real him_ —this time. Stephen lies back and waits, tries to ignore his pounding head.

After about ten minutes, he can hear voices outside, and then the curtain is drawn back. A woman steps in. She's young, dark hair pulled into a bun, glasses, white coat over scrubs. A resident, he guesses, based on her age and the dark circles under her eyes.

"Hi, Stephen. I'm Dr. Louise Marsten." She rolls a stool and a mobile kiosk over to his bed, reaches her hand out. He shakes it, a little surprised by the gesture.

She hops onto the stool and starts moving the mouse around, staring at the screen. "I see here that you have a temporary hold, but you're not bonded or assigned... You have a special exemption. Oh, you're a doctor! A neurosurgeon." She looks back over at him, expectantly.

"That's right."

"Good for you!" She seems so genuinely pleased that he almost feels guilty at the stab of irritation.

"Thanks."

"I considered neurology and, maybe, neurosurgery. But then I decided I wanted to have a life, you know. So I chose emergency medicine, instead. That was probably a mistake, as it turns out... I imagine it's been pretty challenging for you. My older brother is an omega and he's a lawyer. And I can remember how hard he had to work to get there. Sometimes I think I had it easy, going to med school, compared to the few omegas in my class. With the shit they had to put up with..." She shakes her head. "The whole education system's just so much easier for women... Sorry, rambling... Been one of those days. So, do you remember what happened?"

Some. None of it was good. "Not really," he says.

"Your partner said you fainted. And you were confused and combative when you arrived in the ER."

He doesn't remember that at all. But he's never passed out after using magic before—he must have really been out of it. "Sorry about that."

She smiles. "Don't worry—you weren't too bad. Just grumpy. And you got pretty creative with the insults—I've never actually heard anyone use the word 'hoary' before... I'm used to it. Yesterday a drunk alpha pissed on me. You haven't done that yet, so I already like you more."

Stephen manages a small smile despite his headache. "That's why neurology is the better specialty—less piss. Usually."

She laughs. "Yeah, yeah... So I made a mistake. You don't have to rub it in."

He likes her a little more now.

"My... my friend. He had a head wound. How is he?"

"The FBI agent? He's fine. I stitched him up a few hours ago. Tried to keep him for observation, but you know... Alphas." She shrugs.

Stephen nods, relieved. Sam's okay.

"So, let's see..." Dr. Marsten continues. "When you first got here, your blood sugar was very low, around 35. And, as I'm sure you know, that could explain all of your symptoms. We were also worried about the possibility of a seizure due to your altered mental state. Your EEG was perfectly normal. Nothing on your MRIs either, so I'm pretty confident there's nothing neurological going on. Would you like to take a look?"

"No thanks. I trust you." He's pretty sure he's fine, anyway, but he appreciates the gesture.

"That low blood sugar, though..." She frowns. "You don't have any history of diabetes? You're not currently taking insulin? There's nothing in your file."

"No."

"Any family or friends diabetic?"

He can see what she's getting at, and he smiles. "Nope. I'm pretty sure no one's tried to murder me with insulin today."

She grins back at him. "Just had to make sure... Okay. We'll check your glucose levels one more time, but I think they're already back in the normal range, considering how quickly you recovered after we started the drip. You must be feeling a lot better."

"Yeah. A little shaky still, but I'm fine."

"You do seem fine now. But I'm pretty concerned about an otherwise healthy omega presenting with such severe hypoglycemia. Have you been under a lot of stress lately? Eating enough? How's your appetite?"

He's starving, actually. "I just haven't been eating enough, and I _have_ been under a lot of stress." None of that is technically a lie...

She watches him for just a second too long before saying, "Right," and turning back to the keyboard.

Stephen can tell she's not satisfied with that answer. Because it's bullshit, and they both know it. A healthy person doesn't present with levels that low, unless there's some underlying issue. He feels a little guilty leaving her guessing, knows she's the kind of doctor who won't want to just let this go. But he's pretty sure his diagnosis of 'magical exhaustion' won't go over well either. 

She's decided to trust him, though, and he likes her all the more for it. She reminds him a little of Christine, actually—a slightly younger, less cynical version. And she's practically the first person here to treat him like an equal.

"Okay, then, Doctor..." She makes a few more notes in his file. "I am going to suggest you follow up with your regular physician and recommend you eat more... maybe a lot more. So this doesn't happen again." She smiles at him. "I've got you scheduled for a consult with Andrology. _Sorry_. My attending is a little over cautious. But after that, you should be good to go."

She stands up and offers her hand again. "It was nice to meet you."

Stephen shakes it. "Nice to meet you, too." He's a little surprised to find that he actually means it.

"Feel better. And I'll try to get Andrology to hurry up, so you're not stuck here all day. They can be pretty slow up there." She gives him one last little wave and then disappears around the curtain.

Andrology _is_ slow.

He sleeps fitfully for a while, and dreams about planning his next murder, casting a spell that's all numbers, and of a crescent moon, hanging low in the sky. He wakes up, confused, when a nurse comes in to check on him. They bring him apple juice and jello like he's a kid, and he eats it all. His head still hurts, but the shakes are gone.

Finally another doctor steps in.

"Hi, Stephen. I'm Dr. Ashton. I'm with Andrology." She's about sixty or so, plump, with graying, curly hair cut short. "Dr. Marsten called me in to help out with your case." She gives him a warm smile, but doesn't offer to shake his hand. She pulls the stool over to the bed and sits on it, focuses on the file in her hands.

 _Andrology_... As far as he can remember that's the specialty dealing with omega medicine.

Stephen watches her hands as she flips through her papers. Interestingly—she doesn't smell like anything. Even with the overwhelming scent of the hospital surrounding them, he should be able to pick up something, but he can't. That's new.

"So... Dr. Marsten said you were very confused when you were brought in—"

_What does this have to do with the fact that he's an omega?_

"—and your guardian is worried that you've been moody lately and have been having trouble controlling your temper."

He frowns at her. His guardian...? _Sam_. That asshole. This is his fault. "What did my guardian say exactly?"

"He said that this morning you hit an alpha who'd shown some interest in you. Is that true?"

Should he lie and say it didn't happen? It might get him out of this useless exam. On the other hand, contradicting an FBI agent might make him sound even crazier. "I... _did_. But the circumstances were entirely different. I—"

She holds up her hand to stop him. "Whatever the circumstances, hon, an omega showing aggression towards an alpha is not normal." She smiles at him gently. "I think the incident that put you in the ER today is most likely the result of your low blood sugar. And I agree with Dr. Marsten that all of thatis a result of you pushing yourself too hard and not eating enough." She gives him a stern look. "So let's try to remember to eat from now on."

Stephen can tell she's not done with him yet.

"But with your recent history of instability, we just need to make sure there's nothing else going on. Whenever an omega presents with an altered mental state, we like to rule out any possible hormonal causes. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

Stephen already knows he's not going to win this argument. "No, I don't mind." He can pretend to be a good patient if it gets him discharged sooner. Then he can kick Sam's ass.

"Great." She smiles at him again. "I see here that you had your last full exam in February. Everything was fine... You were on suppressants for twelve years, no problems stopping..." she reads to herself. "When was the first day of your last heat?"

 _Shit_. He's already in trouble. "Uh..."

"Just as close as you can remember..."

Pick something safe. He's not even sure what that would be... "Uh... May third, I think." Two weeks ago seems safe...

To his relief, she writes this down without questioning it. "And did you spend it with a partner?"

What's the right answer...? "No," seems the safest.

She frowns, but nods and makes a few notes. Stephen can feel subtle disapproval radiating from her. 'No' was obviously the wrong answer. "And... you used hormones?"

Her inflection on that question suggests 'yes' is the right answer. "Yes."

"Have you been sexually active between heats?"

"Uh... no."

"When was the last time you were with a male partner?"

He's just going to have to wing it... "Uh, two... heats ago."

"Did you use protection?"

"Yes."

She looks up and he catches another subtle hint that she's disappointed with that answer. "Condoms in combination with hormones?"

Stephen nods. He has no idea what that means and hopes she doesn't need any more details.

"Okay..." Apparently, she doesn't. Dr. Ashton spends a few moments writing. "Any pain during intercourse?"

He shakes his head.

"Heats well managed? No severe pain or bleeding? Violent, suicidal, persistent, or disturbing thoughts?"

He shakes his head again. He _does_  want to kill Sam Wilson right now, but he decides it might be best to keep that to himself.

"Any issues between heats? Have you been experiencing any mood swings? Any bleeding or pain? Dizziness?"

Only when he uses too much magic... Stephen shakes his head to all of this.

She seems satisfied with his answers. Or, at least, she doesn't seem to suspect he's an imposter from another world. "Okay, Stephen. I'm going to order some labs. Let's run a hormone panel just to make sure there's nothing going on." She gets up and goes to the sink to wash her hands. _Shit_ , he thinks. "I'm just going to do a quick internal exam. Make sure everything's healthy in there..."

Stephen shifts nervously. He definitely doesn't want that, or need it. But he really does want to get out of here as quickly as possible. He watches warily as she slips on some gloves and lubes up two fingers. _Fuck_. Sam might actually have to die for this...

"Okay..." Stephen's not really sure what the protocol is here. He starts to scoot down the bed.

"Oh, no, hon. You're fine right there." Dr. Ashton sits on the edge of the bed. "Just lay back and lift your knees for me."

He does as he's told, gritting his teeth.

She pulls the sheet up a little, and leans down between his legs. "Okay, Stephen, deep breath..." And she slides her cold fingers into his ass.

Stephen winces and tries to relax. It's actually not as painful as he'd expected having two fingers just shoved inside without any prep would be. Still uncomfortable as fuck, though... His legs twitch when she presses too hard on his prostate. He stares up at the ceiling, waiting for it to be over.

"You're doing great, hon. Okay, just a little pinch here. Relax." Her fingers press up into something—some spot inside him.

 _Damn it_ , that actually does hurt. He can't help tensing up. The muscles in his abdomen start to cramp as she keeps pushing against that spot.

Finally, it's over. "That's it, hon." She pulls her fingers out, settles the blanket back down over his legs. "Everything feels perfect. You're all closed up, just like you should be."

Dr. Ashton heaves herself off the bed and strips her gloves into the biohazard bin. "Let a nurse know if there's any serious bleeding. A little spotting is normal, and so are the cramps. They should fade soon."

Now he's been violated for no reason, and he's in pain. Whatever she just did has left him with an aching belly. He grimaces and tries to get comfortable again.

She settles back on her stool with her papers again. "So, I think your little outburst was probably due to your extremely low blood sugar and not to any of the more serious things that we worry about when we see your symptoms. Your recent irritability, though, is most likely the result of using artificial hormones. We know that aggression and other mood disturbances are possible side-effects. It's very common. So, I'm going to go ahead and release you into the care of your guardian, with a recommendation that you follow up with your regular Andrologist." She scribbles a few things down in her papers. 

When she looks back up at him, she gives him her best grandmotherly smile. "However, I am concerned about your lifestyle..."

 _Oh shit_ , here it comes, Stephen thinks.

"A smart, pretty omega like you should be spending his heats with a partner. The natural way. Not relying on artificial hormones for relief. Now I know that won't be an issue once the ban goes into effect next year... But until then I'd like you to try having unprotected sex with a partner during your next heat. It really will help stabilize your moods and make your heats more regular. There's also some very good evidence that regular exposure to an alpha in rut can prevent some of the more serious disorders that omegas face."

She gives him another sweet smile and reaches over to pat his knee. "Plus... I hear it can be pretty fun."

This place is so unbelievably fucked up. He does his best to smile and nod.

 

***

 

Stephen has to wait for Sam to get back from the warehouse before they'll release him.

After what feels like hours later, they give him his clothes back, including a new pair of scrubs to replace the torn ones. And he finally gets discharged with orders to eat more frequently, and have unprotected sex. Stephen still can't quite get over that last one. An omega nurse escorts him to the waiting room.

Sam is sitting next to a new stack of files, his jacket slung onto the back of a chair and the sleeves of his rumpled dress shirt rolled up. The collar is still dotted with blood. There's a spot on his head where his scalp has been neatly sutured. They must have discharged him a while ago. He looks exhausted. The same way Stephen feels.

Sam looks up from the file he's reading. His eyes are bloodshot and he blinks a few times at Stephen before recognition dawns and he smiles. "Hey. You ready to go?" He sounds tired, too.

All of Stephen's anger suddenly drains away. It's late and he just wants to get out of here. "Yeah." 

Once they're in the car—Stephen in the passenger seat this time, no cuffs—Sam shoves the key in the ignition, but doesn't turn it.

Stephen just sits in the dark and waits for him to say something.

Sam rubs at his eyes before speaking. "I need to thank you... for saving my life back there," he says quietly. "I'm sorry I doubted you. And I'm sorry for the... handcuffs earlier. I owe you my life, man..."

"It's no problem."

Sam looks over at him and nods. He finally starts the car. "And you were right about our killer... He's an omega."

 

***

 

"Did you get a look at him?" Stephen asks. "I was too far away to see anything."

It's too late to drive back to Brewster tonight, so Sam's found them a new hotel room. It looks exactly like their last one except there are two beds.

Sam is busy arranging his extra clothes on hangers. "No. He had some kind of breathing apparatus on his face. I couldn't see anything useful. Average height and weight for an omega. Brown hair, straight. Cut short. That's about all I got." Stephen can hear the disappointment in Sam's voice. He can sympathize. They'd come so close...

"How do you know he's an omega?" As soon as he asks the question, he realizes he already knows the answer.

"The way he smelled. I thought it was you, at first." Sam huffs out a laugh. "Was about to lay into you for getting out of the car..."

"I _did_ get out of the car," Stephen points out.

Sam chuckles.

It's late, but Stephen knows he's not going to be able to sleep right now. He gestures at the files Sam's brought with him. "Can I take a look at those?"

"Be my guest." 

There's not enough room at the little hotel desk, so he spreads everything out on one of the beds. The newest victim is a local woman named Marianne Carlson, age forty, a cab driver. That's interesting. Five children. On government assistance. She had a bonded omega, apparently—a man named Jamie Nguyen.

"This victim is different," Stephen says. He doesn't know what that means yet...

"Yeah. We noticed that." Sam pulls a bottle of whiskey out of a paper bag, sets it on the desk. Stephen eyes it, but doesn't say anything.

This woman might be different, but she still fits his theory. And now they actually have someone to talk to—the omega bond-mate. Someone who might be able to tell them who she was seeing. He hasn't been interviewed yet, except to establish that he was with the kids at the time of the murder.

"I still think she knew our killer personally. This has to be how they're connected—he had sex with all of them. Is there any way to track that sort of thing?"

"What? Who people have sex with?"

"Yeah."

Sam chuckles. "Our government may be a bit on the oppressive side, but they haven't gone that far yet." He unwraps a plastic cup and pours about two fingers of whiskey. Slams it back, and pours another. This time, he takes a smaller sip. He notices Stephen watching him. "Sorry—one of those nights... You want some of this?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Stephen can't help adding, "You shouldn't be drinking after a possible concussion."

"You're right, but I need it after today." Sam opens another cup and pours. "You know..." he laughs. "That doctor of yours told me to take you home and, uh, give it to you good." He smirks at Stephen as he hands him the flimsy cup. "Not her exact words." 

He's actually still fairly pissed off at Sam for setting him up like that. Even if it was out of some misguided attempt to help him.

"I figured she might. That's your fault, by the way. Cheers." Stephen downs the drink in single swallow, shudders a little. 

"One more?" Sam asks.

Stephen nods. "At least one..." He really just wants to erase the whole day. If only that was possible...

Sam chuckles and fills his cup again. "She also gave me some pills I'm supposed to slip in your drink." Stephen glances sharply at him and Sam adds, "Obviously, I didn't do that. Don't even know what they're for... Probably supposed to keep you from punching me."

Stephen snorts and turns back to the papers spread out on the bed around him. He moves a few pages around randomly, maybe hoping to see a pattern that wasn't there before.

 _An omega_... How did he meet these women? That has to be the key—that's the way they're going to find this guy.

Stephen takes a slow sip of his drink, lets the alcohol numb his mouth for a moment. Something from his vision comes back to him. Just impressions, but he's pretty sure they're right. "The killer hates being an omega. He hates women, too, but... not these women, specifically. The victims are just a means to an end for him. To... get what he wants. I'm still not sure what that is. I couldn't see that part."

Sam waves a hand. "We'll get him. He's been careful... But now he's getting reckless. We'll get him," he repeats.

Sam doesn't seem to want to talk about the case, which is a first. Stephen sets the papers aside and watches the other man fiddle with his cup.

"Tell me more about your world," Sam says. "You're a doctor there, right? How did you become a Sorcerer?"

Stephen takes another sip. "I _used_ to be a doctor—a neurosurgeon. I loved it. But I... I fucked it all up. Damaged my hands in an accident. And then I couldn't work anymore. I kind of... stumbled into sorcery."

"To fate," Sam says, holding up his cup.

"To fate," Stephen echoes. "Fuck you," he adds.

Sam laughs and takes a long swallow. "So... do you have a bond-mate over there?"

"Uh... no. I'm not with anyone." His last attempt at a relationship had been an unmitigated disaster. "What about you?"

Sam laughs again. "Alphas don't have bond-mates. And, no, I'm not _with anyone_ ," he says, gently mocking Stephen's choice of words. He shakes his head like the very idea is ridiculous. "Another drink?"

Stephen looks down at his cup, surprised to see it empty again. "Uh, yeah. Sure." He's feeling better now. One more drink won't hurt, though.

Sam picks up the bottle and walks over. He reaches out and holds Stephen's hand steady around the cup as he pours. Sam's fingers are hot against his skin. He smells so good right now, better than whiskey... Stephen swallows. His throat has suddenly gone dry. "I, uh... Thanks."

Sam doesn't step back when he's done. He sets the bottle down carefully on the nightstand. His smell has changed again—grown deeper and stronger. He takes another step closer, until his leg is brushing Stephen's, and the smell gets even better. Now Stephen's head is swimming with it, and he suddenly _wants_ Sam. More than anything. He'll do anything... Anything Sam wants.

He has to swallow again before he can speak. " _Sam...?_ " This time, he knows exactly what's happening, but it's still terrifying.

Sam's eyes are dark—all pupil. He leans in closer, takes the cup from Stephen's numb hand before he can spill it, and sets it off to the side. "Come here," he murmurs. His fingers ghost up along the sides of Stephen's neck, making him shiver.

Stephen closes his eyes and tilts his head back, expecting a bite to his neck, but instead Sam presses soft lips against his. Stephen grunts in surprise and opens his mouth, letting Sam push his tongue inside. He tastes as good as he smells, maybe better... Sam tilts his head to the side and deepens the kiss. Stephen grabs on to Sam's arms almost by reflex, fingers tightening in his shirt. He wants to pull him closer, pull Sam down on top of him. He pants into the other man's mouth. He can't seem to get enough air in through his nose. _That smell.._.

Sam's fingers dig hard into the back of his neck, and Stephen groans. Something inside him twinges painfully. He wants... No, he  _needs_ Sam...

But Sam suddenly jerks away from him like he's been burned. "Sorry. _Fuck_. I'm—I'm sorry." He paces in a circle, rubbing the back of his neck. The smell slowly recedes.

"It's okay," Stephen says quietly. He's still dizzy and his heart is pounding, but he can think again. He clears his throat, watches Sam warily. "I didn't think anyone here knew what kissing was. I've never seen anyone do it. Never... had anyone try to kiss me..."

Sam stops pacing by the dresser. About as far as he can get from Stephen in their tiny room. "It's usually a thing omegas do with women. But... a few of the omegas I've been with like it. I thought... you might..."

"I did like it," he admits.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... You just smell so damn good. And it's been a long time since I've been..." He stops, laughs to himself. "Yeah. It's been a long time." His smile fades and he looks up at Stephen, suddenly serious. "Your heat's coming soon."

Stephen tilts his head in confusion. "The doctor said I—"

"She can't smell what I smell. It's just a hint right now, but it's already making me..." He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. Stephen can smell the frustration rolling off of him in waves. " _Fuck_. You can't see it, can you?"

"See what?"

"How... _desirable_ you are. Right now. That poor motherfucker Arnold... The only reason he didn't press charges is because he still thinks he has a better chance of fucking you if you're not in jail. The fact that you fought him off just makes him want you more."

Stephen shakes his head in disbelief. "Arnold has serious issues, then..."

"You're still not getting it." 

"Explain it to me."

"Arnold was just acting like a normal alpha. He came on to you, and you responded. Omegas are expected to resist at first, that's part of the game. But once he got you going, you can't just expect him to stop. It doesn't work like that here."

Stephen snorts in derision.

Sam gives him an irritated look. "I have no idea what things are like where you're from... How the alphas are there... But here, in this world, alphas are taught that omegas need a firm hand. Someone to dominate them. To an alpha, sex is about power. Sex is showing an omega that you can give them what they need, by controlling them. Even if they don't know that's what they need... It's also about pleasure—I mean, of course it feels good—but you can't separate those two things. They're the same to most alphas."

"Do you believe all that bullshit? That sex is power?"

Sam looks at him for a moment before answering. "Yeah. In some ways, I do. I'm not saying I agree that alphas should take whatever they want, whenever they want. I would never force anyone who wasn't into it. I think that's wrong. But omegas are naturally weaker than alphas." He holds up a hand at the look of outrage on Stephen's face. "Hey, now... I'm not making a value judgement. That's just biology. That's a fact. An omega's body is designed to respond to an alpha's scent, to submit to an alpha. That's necessary for mating. And a lot of omegas want to be controlled like that. They enjoy it. I'm not saying you want that, but a lot of them do."

"That's bullshit."

Sam shrugs, and takes another swallow of whiskey. "That's just how I see it..."

Stephen takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. He doesn't want to get into it again with Sam, not right now. He's too damn tired and his head hurts. They just come from completely different cultures—he has to accept that they're going to disagree. 

Sam takes a contemplative sip of his drink. "Alphas are... You just have to assume they're always thinking about how they're going to fuck you. All the time."

"And what about you? What are you thinking about?"

Sam's laugh is bitter. "Trust me... You don't wanna know."

"Tell me anyway. I want to understand."

Sam chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "I think you might punch me."

Stephen acknowledges the point with a tip of his head. "Maybe." Why is he pushing this? This isn't his fight, or his world. Not even his Sam Wilson. They just need to work together long enough to solve this thing. Then he can go home. "You're right. Don't tell me."

Sam nods and lowers himself into a chair. "Better not—I haven't given you those pills yet..." He's smiling again.

Stephen tries to smile back. He might be finding out pretty soon, anyway... "So... this heat thing... What are we going to do about that? How long does it last? I mean... there has to be some kind of medication I can take...?"

"Suppressants are illegal now. You can still buy them on the street, but... I can't let you break the law like that. Not when you're in my custody. If that got out, it would ruin my career."

Stephen narrows his eyes. Sam seems sincere, and he really doesn't want to cause any more damage here than he has to. "Fine. What do you suggest then?"

Sam shrugs. "There aren't a lot of options... I could take you to an omega shelter—they'd be able to provide you with a safe place to spend your heat, and some medications to deal with the symptoms. But..."

"But what?" That sounds like his best choice right now.

"Someone would need to get you there soon. They won't accept an omega who's too close or already in heat—liability issues or something—and then they'd need to keep you there for at least another two days after you're done to make sure your hormones have settled. And I think, uh...you might need to check in tomorrow if you wanted to do that. So that would be... almost a week. We'd lose a lot of time."

 _Shit_. That is a lot. "What about my apartment? I'll just go back and lock myself in. Wait until it's over." _Or_... He has an idea. " _Christine_. I mean, Dr. Palmer—my friend at the hospital..." The last time he was here, she was going to help him. He's not sure how, but she seemed to know what to do. "She can help me out. Prescribe something..."

"That's risky. And, even with medications, you're going to be miserable the whole time. Still going to take a lot longer, too, without an alpha..."

Why is everything in this world so damn complicated? "So you're saying the only option is to let you fuck me?" he snaps.

Sam holds up his hands, and his smell is suddenly soothing, filling the room. "That's not what I'm saying. Stop trying to twist my words around and make me the enemy. I want the same thing you want—to find this motherfucker, and stop him. And to do that, I need your help. But you're going to be fucking useless while you're in heat. Being with an alpha will shorten that by at least a few days, so we can get back to work. _Any alpha_. I don't give a fuck. You choose. Doesn't have to be me."

 _Fuck_. He's right. They just don't have time for this. Stephen scrubs his hands through his hair, mutters, "Sorry."

"It's fine." Sam pauses. "You know... Arnold's into you. I could text him when it's time..."

Stephen looks up. Sam is smiling a little, so that must have been a joke, even if it wasn't funny. "Fuck you," he says, just as a matter of principle.

He runs his fingers over his chin, thinking. What the fuck _is_ he going to do? He doesn't feel any different. Not yet... He knows that once that changes, he won't be able to think rationally. This is not his world, and not his body... Not his to make decisions about—he's just borrowing it for a while. He feels an intense flash of guilt at that, at everything that this version of him has already been through. But the worlds might be at a stake, and they need the time. _Desperately_.

"Okay," he finally says.

"What?"

"I give you permission to... When I'm in heat, I mean... You can"—he waves his hand, vaguely—"do whatever you need to do. To shorten it." He pauses. "And you do realize that you'll be useless too, right? I would just find someone else, but... I don't know anyone. And I trust you." He's being selfish, really. They'll just have to hope the murderer takes a vacation for a couple days. While they're incapacitated...

Sam is just staring at him.

" _What?_ Do I need to put it in writing or something?" 

Sam shakes his head. "You're giving me permission to fuck you?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"Like... fuck you repeatedly. When you're in heat, it's not gonna be just once..."

Now he's getting annoyed, and the flush of embarrassment rushing up his neck is pissing him off. "Yes. You can fuck me as many times as you want. Why is this a problem?" 

"I just want to make sure you understand what you're agreeing to. Because you seem very confused about how a lot of shit works here, and I don't want you to go claiming I took advantage later."

Stephen scowls at him. "So I'll put it in writing. That should cover your ass."

"I don't mean legally, you dick. I mean... _emotionally_. Once you go into heat, I... probably won't be able to stop. And I like you, man. I consider you a... a friend. But, as smart as you are, you might also be... damaged. I was serious when I said I wouldn't take advantage. I don't want to hurt you."

The smell coming from Sam now is new—the sharp scent of arousal and frustration, but softened with something calmer, almost bittersweet. Stephen wishes he knew what it meant. "I understand. I consider you a friend, too. I know what I'm asking for." He smirks. "And for the last damn time, I'm not crazy."

 

***

 

That night he dreams about the moon again.

_Hanging low and orange over the city, seeming to balance at the top of the Avenger's Tower like an old god surveying a new world. His world. His home. Lights blink below as the city lives and breathes and moves. Unaware._

_And the god rests. And waits._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a longer wait before the next chapter. Apologies for that. And thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lesson in magic. A lesson in history. A lesson in anatomy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delving into serious omegaverse territory here, with some very, very dubious consent. I promise there is a tiny bit of plot here... but this is mostly sex. (It's a little kinky, sorry, I can't help myself)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: alternate universe sex, kinky sex, a threesome and a foursome (flashback), underage sex (flashback), dubious consent, discussion of sensitive topics, weird and gross biology, way too many bodily fluids (seriously), use of a sex toy, spoilers for _An American Werewolf in London_ , bad and terrible science

_Schilling: I object to you using that word._

_DHHS counsel: What word, ma'am?_

_Schilling: Child. He's not a child. We don't believe he's still a child. Once an omega reaches maturity..._

_DHHS counsel: Ma'am, with all due respect, the laws of the state of Nebraska recognize anyone under the age of eighteen as a minor child. Now if—_

_Schilling: This is why the courts do not have dominion over us. Our beliefs, our practices, are protected by the constitution. We have the absolute right to live as we believe. And we will defend those rights. Your laws aren't our laws. And—_

_DHHS counsel: Ma'am—_

_Schilling: This boy's mother gave him into our care. To raise as our own, as one of us. And that's what we've done. And the problem is when you... when you come in and interfere with that. This is not what he needs._

_DHHS counsel: That's not the issue... The issues are, ah... first and foremost... the, uh, child's treatment, while in your custody—_

_Schilling: The boy is smart and troubled. He needs a firm hand to guide him. He needs to learn his place in the world. Especially an omega. They're made by the Goddess for a purpose—to serve the needs of the chosen people. That's a... That's a gift. To learn to serve... You're not helping him by taking him away from the only family he's ever known. He needs us._

Excerpt from the testimony of Susan Schilling, Head Priestess, The Living Blood Commune, Johnstown, NE, August 12, 1991; Hearing to determine custody of Stephen V. Strange

  

***

 

The next morning is overcast and dark. No sunrise to greet them today.

Stephen stares blearily out the car window at the traffic. His head still hurts and he's exhausted after another restless night. They're stuck at rush hour on the way to the FBI field office. He glances back over at Sam, but the other man is still completely engrossed in the phone that's been glued to his ear since they left the hotel. He should be paying more attention to the road, Stephen thinks.

"Yeah. We're on our way there now. No. No luck. Forensics found nothing on the victim's phone. Nothing at the house or in her cab, either. Yeah." Sam pauses while the person on the other end—presumably the FBI agent from the crime scene yesterday—says something. He honks the horn almost automatically when a van merges too slowly in front of them. Sam chuckles at something she says. "You too, huh? No problem. Yeah. Okay."

He stuffs the phone in his pocket just in time to flip off the cab driver who's been tailgating them.

 

***

 

The medical examiner is, much to Stephen's surprise, an omega. Around fifty or so, black or maybe mixed-race, with salt and pepper hair and a thin, morose face. He's also wearing shoes—they look like slippers. Stephen still finds it so odd that he's allowed to walk into a medical setting without any, despite all of the safety considerations. The man glances curiously at Stephen's hand tattoos and then back up, gives a single small nod of acknowledgement and turns his attention to Sam.

"Agent Wilson." Another, slightly longer nod. "Thank you so much for coming by. Brightens my day, just seeing your face." The two of them obviously know each other well.

"No problem, Doc. What do you got for me?"

The man moves across the morgue with a slow grace. "Oh, you know... the usual." He pulls the sheet off the body on the table, folds it down. The woman's face is pale and blotchy with pooling blood. Blond curly hair, thin. The y-incision across her torso has already been closed up with neat sutures.

"Your victim, Marianne Carlson, age forty. Killed by a single slice—that's the scientific term, mind—to the carotid arteries, resulting in massive blood loss and death. The knife fits the parameters of the one used in the other killings. Victim otherwise in good health. Postmortem indicates she was incapacitated shortly before death by a single blow to the back of the head here." He turns the woman's head slightly to indicate a spot just above the interparietal bone. 

Stephen leans in closer to look at the contusion. The ME frowns at him slightly.

Sam looks up from his notebook. "Sorry... Stephen, this is Dr. Fuller. Doc, this is Stephen. He's helping me out with the case. He's also a doctor."

That seems to surprise the ME. "Oh, well... Very nice to meet you, Stephen. What's your specialty, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Neurology."

"Oh. Interesting, interesting... I believe I once considered that field, way back when I was doing rotations. Found I couldn't abide people, however. So this"—he sweeps his arm around to indicate the morgue—"is much more my style."

He glances back and forth between Stephen and Sam. "And now you're helping out our dear Agent Wilson with his favorite  serial killer. Interesting." A look passes over his face. Stephen knows it well—the 'I've just figured something out' look. He widens his eyes just slightly at Stephen and then gives Sam another quick glance.

Sam is still busy writing in his notebook, but he can sense the attention. "He's also a Sorcerer from another dimension."

Dr. Fuller just nods at that. "Of course he is. Of course." He's obviously not going to mention whatever it is he just noticed.

Sam looks up. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"Oh, yes. I think you'll like it. As much as one can be said to _like_ such things..."

"Spit it out, Doc."

"She was pregnant. About three months along."

Sam glances over at Stephen, eyes sharp. This could be what they've been waiting for...

"I'll need a—" Sam starts.

The ME holds up an imperious hand. "Say no more, Agent Wilson. I am already on it, as they say. I've got my extremely young, wide-eyed, and eager assistant busy in the lab already. She should have the DNA results back in two days, with a comparison to the DNA of the fetus of the late Lucy Bates." 

Sam grins, snaps his notebook shut. "Thanks, Doc."

"Save your false gratitude. You're buying me dinner if there's a match, Agent Wilson."

 

*** 

 

Sam is excited. Stephen can smell it.

"Once we have that match, I can get a warrant to check the state databases."

"State databases?"

"Yeah. A few states keep records of some omega's DNA. If he's a sex worker, if he's got a state fertility assignment, or ever had a hold. It should be in there. I couldn't show cause before—the database isn't criminal, so they don't wanna just release that information. But if we can link him to two murders through the DNA... that should be enough. We could get a name."

"If he's in there..."

Sam frowns at him, before turning back to the road. "This is our best chance so far."

Stephen shrugs. He's not sure why he's so skeptical—he just has a hunch that this isn't the way they're going to find him.

 

***

 

The warehouse on Luddington Street is still roped off, but almost no one's around. Just two officers sitting in a patrol car outside. They wave to Sam as he drives past. 

Stephen stares at the building. He can feel something coming from it, but it's not quite the same as yesterday. Not the killer. Not the murder. Not the irritating spell.

Sam parks and gets out, looks around for Stephen. "Come on, man. You wanted to take a look, right?"

"Yeah." Stephen steps out slowly. Whatever he's feeling, it's familiar. But not... _bad_.

Inside, the feeling is much stronger. He glances at the spell on the wall. That's not it. He turns around in place a few times. Walks in ever-widening circles.

Sam is just watching him, curious but patient. He's apparently willing to let Stephen act as crazy as he wants if it helps solve the case.

 _Maybe...?_ He takes a deep breath through his nose, tastes the air. A lot of smells. The ones he'd expect to find in an old warehouse where a woman's just been murdered, but also... Paper. Books. Incense. _Wong!_

He shuts his eyes and puts as much power as he can behind the thought.

_WONG!_

And then... a connection.

 _Stephen_. He knows he's not imagining the relief he hears in Wong's voice. _Stop shouting_.

 _Holy shit! It's working. Why is it working?_ _Wong, where are you right now?_

_I'm in Syracuse, New York. At the warehouse. I'm with Hamir and Detectives García and Nelson. A woman named Marianne Carlson was murdered here yesterday. Where are you?_

_I'm here, too. The warehouse in Syracuse. The same murder._

_Yes, but which universe?_ He can hear the familiar impatience creeping into Wong's voice. He never thought he'd miss it so much.

_I'm in that weird world I told you about—the one with three sexes._

_Earth 725_. He can hear Wong thinking again, but not the substance of it. _Many Sorcerers have visited it before and had... interesting experiences. Are you okay?_

 _I'm fine for now._  Something Wong said triggers a thought, though. Some memory... _What did you just say? Earth what?_

_Earth 725. The numerical designation of that universe. We give numbers to the different universes as we discover them. So we can keep track of where we've been in the multiverse._

The numbers. Seven. Two. Five. He's seen them before... The glyphs of the inner ring. _What about our universe? Does it have a number?_

_Yes. Earth 618._

The numbers. Oh, shit...

_Wong, I'm an idiot! The numbers that didn't make sense—they're references to the universes. This universe, Earth 725. Our universe, Earth 618._

Silence from the other end. Wong must be thinking again. Then, _Fuck._

That definitely came from Wong. _Did you just...?_ He's never heard Wong swear before.

_Shut up. I'm an idiot, too. I should have seen that._

That's big. He'll need to think about it. But, later... They don't have a lot of time right now. He can already feel himself tiring.

_Look, Wong. The murderer is from here. He's a Sorcerer, for sure. Pretty sure... Magic doesn't follow the same rules here. I have some kind of mental link to the killer, but it's not that strong. Mostly just impressions so far. I'm working with... with the FBI here to catch him. The victims have doubles that exist in both worlds. The murders here are the same people he's killing over there. He's making coincidences happen in both worlds._

Wong is silent, clearly trying to digest all this, so Stephen goes on.  _The victim from yesterday, Marianne Carlson, what can you tell me about her?_

_She was a cab driver from Syracuse. Not married. Forty years old. Her throat was cut. Spell on the wall, the same as the others. In her blood. The murderer here—the second victim—hasn't been found yet. We have some good leads, though._

Wait...  _She was a cab driver?_

_That's what I said._

The same as their victim here. That might be a first. Is that a first? He'll need to check.

_Did she have any kids?_

_Not that we know of._

No match, there. _Anything else? Have you found anything else?_

_All of the murder sites so far are on or close to places of power. Master Minoru figured that out._

That sounds important. _Places of power? You mean like ley lines, sacred sites, buried magnetite deposits, etcetera?_

_Yes. Like etcetera._

Oh, how's he's missed that trademark Wong wit.  _Okay_.

_But he's only using sites that lie within the state of New York._

Weird. _And not the strongest one... The Sanctum_. He wonders what the Sanctum looks like here...

_That would be a very difficult thing to do. The Sanctum is heavily defended. And I'm staying there for now. While you're... away.  
_

_Anything else?_

_Not yet._ Wong sounds as disappointed as Stephen feels. _The Cloak of Levitation is with me. I'm wearing it right now._

 _Okay...?_ He's not exactly sure what Wong is trying to say.

_It... misses you._

_I miss the cloak, too._ He never thought he'd miss a piece of fabric so much, actually. It's disturbing.  _Go ahead, tell it I miss it._

_No._

Well, it was worth a shot... A sudden thought occurs to him. _Wait... Where's my body?_

_When it became clear you weren't coming back right away, we moved it to the hospital. Dr. Palmer is taking care of it._

Fuck. Four days so far, and probably more to come. In a coma, essentially... That's going to cost a fortune, he thinks randomly.

Wong must have heard that. _Don't worry. We have very good insurance._ Stephen can hear a hint of amusement in his voice.

He wonders how long his body will last without him in it. How long he can keep possessing his double without doing any permanent damage.

_Wong... How am I going to get back?_

He's been here before, of course, but the spell they'd used had a time limit and a connection tethering his soul to his body like a safety harness. He's working without a rope this time.

 _We're working on that._ A pause. _We need to figure out a way to speak again. Can you come back here tomorrow? At a certain time?  
_

_That might be difficult. Give me three days?_

_Yes, although this connection may fade. What time?_

He wishes he could talk to Sam right now. _Ten am._ That will have to work. _If it doesn't work, I'll find some other way to contact you._

 _Yes. And Stephen...?_ Wong's voice suddenly sounds far away, echoing _._

_Yeah?_

_Be safe._

The connection fades. Stephen can't tell if Wong cut it, or if they just lost it. When he opens his eyes, he's on the cold ground and Sam is holding his head in his lap. 

"Well..." he rasps. "This is awkward." Sam smells too good. He really needs to get his head farther away from certain... _areas_.

Sam looks worried and relieved at the same time. "You okay? You were just standing there, staring into space. I thought you were having another magic attack."

Stephen sits up slowly. He's okay—no dizziness, no headache this time. He's just tired. "I'm fine. Just talking to a friend. Thanks for not calling an ambulance."

Sam snorts, but his eyes are just slightly sad. "Friend tell you anything useful?"

 _Still don't believe me, do you_ , Stephen thinks. He shakes his head to clear it. "Uh... Maybe. Yes. I think so."

"Sounds promising."

 _Smart ass_. He glares at Sam. Then back up at the wall. "I need to look at that spell for a while."

  

***

 

They stay at the warehouse until late in the afternoon. Stephen wants to make absolutely sure he's not overlooking something vital. They're here now, so he should make it count. Plus, he could talk to Wong here. Does that mean that something's different? Or do they just have to be in the same place at the same time? He can't know for sure.

Sam seems content to indulge him, even if he still thinks he's crazy. He pulls out his laptop and starts working.

There has to be something here. Some clue... Stephen paces around the mostly empty space, curses when his bare foot lands on a piece of twisted wire. There's actually a lot of shit here, but most of it is garbage. Stephen picks up an old newspaper. _The New York Times_ , October 25, last year. _Old news_... He tosses it aside, frustrated, and it knocks over one of the crime scene markers.

"Hey," Sam says. "You should stop fucking up my scene." He picks up the paper, points at Stephen. "Or I'll put cuffs on you again just to keep you from touching shit."

Stephen glares at him. He figures that's mostly an empty threat at this point, but he mumbles, "Sorry," anyway.

He wanders back over to the spell, stares at it. The strong magic he'd sensed here yesterday has faded, but it's not entirely absent. He can still feel the faintest buzzing, like the ground and the walls are vibrating. Earth 725. Earth 618. A connection between them... Coincidences in both worlds... The same people, dead, in both worlds... What is it doing exactly? What's the point? Why—

He freezes suddenly and cold adrenaline rushes through him. Sam's smell has changed. Fear and tension suddenly radiating from him.

Stephen spins around. Sam's just standing there, holding the paper. " _What?_ " Stephen's eyes dart around. _Nothing_. They're alone. He tries, but he can't sense the killer anywhere nearby. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Sam looks shocked. "I've never..." he starts. He shakes his head and seems to get control of himself. "I've never seen this building before." He holds the newspaper out to Stephen.

Stephen takes it, confused. Stares at an article and the accompanying photograph midway down the front page for far too long— _Avengers Tower Reportedly Sells for Billions, Sets New Record,_ a picture of the Manhattan skyline _—_ before he realizes what's wrong _._

_Holy shit._

The numbers. The forced coincidences. He's bringing the two worlds closer together.  

 

***

 

They search through trash for a long time. But every other thing they find at the crime scene could have come from either world.

There's nothing else to indicate how far the breech between the two worlds extends or even if it's still open. Stephen had already tried contacting Wong again, several times, but had no luck. Only a headache to show for his troubles. Either Wong had moved on or he's just too drained right now. Or whatever connection he had to his own world has faded, he thinks.

Stephen holds up an old paper cup from White Castle. "This?"

Sam glances up. "We have White Castle here."

"Damn it." He tosses it back down.

The connection between the worlds must be physical, for that paper to get _here_. That means that the killer could possibly get _there_. And  _that_ is considerably more disturbing than the idea of this asshole just sending his consciousness through. Stephen doesn't know what the point is, but it can't be good.

Sam is still just sitting there, turning the pages of the newspaper slowly. Examining every article and advertisement—even the endless pages of classifieds—like they're the answer to all of life's mysteries. He looks like his entire world's just been turned upside-down. And maybe it has been...

Stephen feels a little sorry for him. "That paper could easily be faked... If it makes you feel better, you can still pretend I'm a crazy omega with a psychic connection to the murderer, and that's it."

"No." Sam sighs and sets the newspaper carefully aside. "No, that's real. It's too good. And what would be the point of faking that? Doesn't make sense..."

Now it's Sam's turn to pace. He stalks back and forth around the newspaper, eyeing it warily, like he expects it to do something dangerous. Stephen watches him.

Sam stops suddenly. "So, your world... No alphas? No omegas? There's nothing in here about them..."

Stephen shakes his head.

Sam frowns at that. "And I'm really a— _what_ _did you call it?—_ a Revenger? Over there?"

"An Avenger. Yeah."

Sam starts pacing again. Stops. "Hold on... I'm not a woman or something, am I? I mean, you're something else over there, right? So I could be..."

Stephen snorts. "No."

Sam seems relieved about that. "And you're actually a Sorcerer. Our serial killer is a real motherfucking Sorcerer..."

Stephen nods again.

" _What the fuck...?_ This is real." He reaches down and grabs the paper again, shakes it. "It's all real. I just... _Fuck_."

"Exactly," Stephen agrees. "Fuck."

 

***

 

The ride back to the hotel is unusually quiet. They stop to pick up food and a replacement bottle of whiskey on the way. Same brand. Probably necessary for their well-being, at this point. Sam doesn't seem to want to talk, and Stephen is still too preoccupied with what they've seen today to care.

The numbers. The spell...

The connection between the worlds must be localized. It must be small. Anything larger and Stephen would have noticed, he's pretty sure. A breech like that should be catastrophic, based on his understanding of parallel realities. And none of the other crime scenes—none of the other spells—had worked like this one did. The killer had succeeded this time, where he'd failed before.

Stephen follows Sam up the stairs to their room. 

The spell syntax, the language—all of that is essentially the same as the spells he's seen at the other crime scenes. But the victims... That's something new. The same person, of course, but they also had the same job in both worlds. Based on what he's read in Sam's files, none of the others have been this similar before.

Sam fumbles with the key card to their room, pushes the door open. Stephen steps in after him and then freezes in the doorway. "Wait..." This is different. This is not the same room they had last night. There's only one bed... "What's this?"

Sam puts his briefcase down on the dresser, looks around. "I switched rooms, since we're gonna be... you know. What we talked about last night..." He makes a vague gesture at the two of them.

Stephen feels that might be jumping the gun, just a bit... "What's with the bed?"

"You sleep on it," Sam says, deadpan.

Stephen scowls at him. "Why is there only one?"

"This is a room for, uh, people who are spending a heat together."

"They have special rooms for that?"

"Of course."

Stephen just shakes his head. Nothing about this place should surprise him now. "So... we're sleeping in the same bed now?"

"Yeah. If you don't mind. It's important, uh... mostly for me. If I want to go into rut, then I need to be close to you. Get your smell, you know... Not that I think that's gonna be a problem, but..."

"Rut?"

"Yeah, rut. It's almost like... the alpha equivalent of a heat. It's triggered by an omega's heat pheromones."

"Of course it is..."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Hey. At least we don't have magic wands and shit here."

"Yeah. That's a problem." _Gods_ , if he had access to half of the power he could conjure back home, this whole damn thing would be over by now.

Dinner is also unusually quiet.

Sam eats and texts on his phone at the same time, which looks to Stephen like it actually takes a fair amount of skill. After they're finished, Sam pulls out the newspaper, settles at the desk to read it again.

Stephen grabs the file on the latest victim from Sam's briefcase. He hesitates for a minute before climbing onto the bed. The mattress makes an odd crinkling sound when he moves. He pulls up the comforter and sheets to confirm. Yep. 

"There's a rubber mattress pad on this bed."

Sam looks over. "Yeah. That's what I'm paying extra for. Special room, remember."

"Yes, but why...?"

Sam turns a page casually. "Body fluids. There's always... _a lot_." 

 _Fuck this world,_ Stephen thinks.

 

***

 

Stephen spends a long time going over the victim files, crime scene photos, and photos of the spells. He doesn't find anything new or useful. Eventually, the words start to jump and blur on the page. He's getting nowhere. He's too tired to think anymore. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes and groans.

Sam leans back in his chair, stretches. "Shit, man. I'm done." He pushes back from his computer and picks up the bottle of whiskey. "Want some?"

"Yeah." Maybe it will help him sleep...

Sam pours into two plastic cups, brings one over to Stephen. "Cheers."

"Thanks." He takes a sip, then another one. Then he remembers what happened last night after they'd had a few drinks... "You're not... going to pull the smell whammy on me again, are you?"

" _Smell whammy?_ " Sam actually sounds offended.

"Yeah. You know—controlling me with your pheromones. Because I'm a weak omega..."

"Are you still pissed about that?" Sam laughs.

Stephen shrugs. He _is_ pissed about it. A little... He takes another drink.

"Oh. Almost forgot..." Sam pulls a thick hardback book out of his briefcase, drops it on the bed next to Stephen.

He glances curiously at Sam, picks it up. _Anatomy and Physiology, 12th Edition._ "What's this for?"

"I borrowed that from Doc Fuller this morning. Grabbed you some new pants, too. I just thought you might want to look at that, since you don't know much about this world. And I thought... it might help you figure some things out."

"You mean, now that you actually believe me?"

"Hey, man... You can't really blame me for being skeptical. This is some seriously fucked up shit." Sam finishes his drink, pours another. "More?"

Stephen holds out his cup. "Yeah. Thanks." Sam fills it and sits back down. He seems to be trying to keep more space between them tonight, Stephen notes.

"Tell me how magic works," Sam says. "You said you can't move between the worlds..."

"Some of them," Stephen clarifies. "We can move between a lot of different dimensions, easily. But some universes are too close together—too similar to get to physically. There are issues with moving matter between them... problems with physics. I don't understand everything about it yet, but... The same matter—the same exact atoms—can't exist simultaneously in two places in the same universe. So, I can't move my physical body to this universe because I already exist here."

"But your consciousness—the killer's consciousness—can. Because that's not physical, right? That's... what? Your soul?

"Astral form. Sort of. It's complicated." Stephen smiles at him.

Sam laughs. "No shit. So this guy's— _what?_ —trying to open a gateway? To go to your world? To send his consciousness there permanently? To bring something back here?"

"I don't know yet. It could be any of those. Except... like I said, I don't think he can move anything to a world where that thing already exists. I don't know what will happen if he tries. Maybe nothing. Maybe... something big. It's not something any Sorcerer I know would attempt. The consequences could be catastrophic." He shrugs and takes another drink. "Whatever he's trying to do, I've got a hunch that we won't like it."

They sit in companionable silence for a while.

Sam goes back to typing on his phone. Stephen tries doodling variations of the spell glyphs on a little hotel notepad. They still look like they shouldn't be able to do anything at all, let alone rip a hole between two worlds.

After two more drinks, Stephen gives up on trying to make sense of the spell. He sets the files and crime scene photos aside and picks up the textbook, instead. He flips through to the chapter on omega reproductive anatomy.

He decides to skip the text for now. There are several diagrams with labeled parts. All of them are bizarre. The most obvious difference is an organ he's never seen before. A spermatheca, according to the book. It looks a little like a uterus—sack-like and lined with muscle on the outside. Stephen remembers that word from his college biology classes—something to do with sperm storage. He'll have to read the text later, figure out what it does. It sits behind and slightly above the bladder, which is too far forward, and in front of the large intestine. There's a muscular, vagina-like passage, labeled a vent, connecting the spermatheca to an opening just above the prostate in the rectum. This is the spot the doctor was stabbing at yesterday, he realizes.

He has the sudden urge to stretch out on the bed and see if his bladder is actually in a different spot, but decides that might be embarrassing. He'll do it later, once Sam's asleep.

Stephen flips through a few more pages. There are extra ducts connecting the spermatheca to the testes, and some glands he's never seen before, but almost everything else looks normal, once he accounts for the different organ positions.

Alpha anatomy, on the other hand...

He skips ahead to that section. There are the weird penises that every alpha can't seem to resist whipping out. And, inside, a bizarre assortment of glands. Some are huge—bigger than a regular male's testes. The alpha testes, themselves, are not that impressive and are inside the abdominal cavity, according to the diagram.

Now that he thinks about it, he realizes he's never actually seen an alpha's balls. "Huh."

"What's 'huh'?" Sam has apparently come up behind him to read over his shoulder.

"Your testicles are inside."

Sam chuckles. "And yours are outside. You wanna fight over which is weirder?"

"Uh... no thanks." Sam's scent is really strong right now, dizzying. _Shit_.

Sam leans in even closer, until he's right up against Stephen's back. He drops his head forward and brushes his nose slowly and deliberately along Stephen's skin. Stephen can feel him breathing deeply, smelling him. He shudders.

"They're always white," Sam says quietly. His warm breath stirs the tiny hairs on the back of Stephen's neck.

"Hmm...?" He's really having trouble keeping track of this conversation. His heart is suddenly beating too hard and too fast.

"The pictures... in these books... They're always a bunch of white guys. You ever noticed that?"

He hadn't really, before. But now that it's been pointed out... "Yeah." Some things are the same in both worlds...

Sam smells so good, he can't focus on the book anymore. He shuts it and sets it aside, but stays still, waiting to see what Sam will do next.

Smell him some more, apparently. They just sit like that for what seems to Stephen like a really long time. He jumps when Sam's hand touches his shoulder.

"Can I...?" Sam's fingers move up to the collar of Stephen's t-shirt. One slips just under the edge, tugs it down lightly. "Can I bite you? Right here? 

" _Fuck_..." he whispers. That might just be the most erotic thing he's ever heard. "Yeah." He'd consent to pretty much anything right now.

Sam leans in close again. Closer. His breath is hot on Stephen's shoulder. He pulls the edge of the shirt down farther. Something wet and warm touches Stephen's skin. Sam's tongue, he realizes. And then a flash of pain as Sam sinks his teeth in, followed by the most amazing feeling of relaxation.

Stephen sags back a little. Sam wraps his arms around his middle, supporting him, all the while keeping a tight grip with his teeth. Stephen groans when Sam suddenly bites down hard again. He feels loose and a little wet between his legs. He's not sure what's happening back there, remembers that his body produces some kind of lubrication when he's turned on. He thought that only happened when he was in heat.

Sam pushes Stephen forward onto his hands and knees, keeping a grip with his teeth. He runs his hands down Stephen's body to his waist, and then down his ass. Stephen expects Sam to reach for his cock next. But, instead, he moves his hand down Stephen's ass, rubs his thumb just above his perineum, up to his asshole. Stephen jumps when he presses there.

Sam releases his hold on Stephen's neck and sits back. Stephen shudders at the loss of contact. The other man is still rubbing his hand over his ass, pressing his thumb in a little on each stroke. It feels good. He's definitely wet now. He hopes that's normal. 

Sam seems to like it. "I wanna..." He clears his throat. "Can I touch you? I won't do anything else."

He wants to point out that, technically, they are touching, but he's pretty sure he knows what Sam means. Stephen thinks he should probably say no, but he's not sure he wants to. "Uh... yeah," he mutters before he can stop himself.

Sam slides his pants down over his ass. There's a long and excruciating pause. Stephen can hear the other man breathing back there. And then Sam runs his finger down over his spine, between his cheeks, to his anus. He pushes just the tip inside.

Another pause, and Stephen holds his breath.

Then Sam gives another little push and slides his finger all the way in, whispers, " _Damn_..."

This is more than touching, Stephen thinks. "Uh... maybe, uh..." He feels drunk and stupid. He should be able to just tell Sam to stop. Does he want him to stop...? He feels like a horny teenager getting felt up by his boyfriend. Sam's scent is making him loopy again. "Maybe, uh... we should..." The words slip out of his head before he can say them.

"Shh... Just a little more." Sam moves his finger in and out a few times, and then up along the inner wall, testing, probing. He brushes over Stephen's prostate and presses on something just past it. Stephen jumps a little. His vent...? Is that where it is?

Sam curls his finger and presses in further. Stephen tenses. It hurts. " _Sam_..." he warns.

Sam is breathing hard now. And Stephen can feel his erection, hot against the back of his thigh. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He backs off a little and starts rubbing gently, slowly. Over that spot and over Stephen's prostate. Again and again. 

Stephen can't help moving his hips. That feels so good. He's getting wetter, he thinks. 

Sam pulls back a little and then slips two fingers inside, continues massaging. _Definitely more than touching..._

Stephen can't stop panting. His body feels different in there now—heavy and full. Pressure building. "Sam...?" They should stop this, maybe... before something happens.

"Okay. Yeah, I think... Just let me..." He stops rubbing and presses in again at that spot, harder.

Stephen moans. It hurts more this time.

"Shh... You're okay. You're fine. I'm just checking." He reaches up suddenly and grabs the nape of Stephen's neck, squeezes hard. And his fingers slide right into that space.

" _Oh, fu_ —" Stephen's whole body tenses, then lets go in a rush of ecstasy. He's coming, he realizes. Not in the way he's used to. This is different. 

 _Shit_... He moans helplessly as his muscles clench around Sam's fingers. Each pulse sends a rush of shivery pleasure through him. He presses his hot face against the sheets and tries to breathe.

Sam is saying something. "Yeah... _Christ_ , that's hot. You're so wet. You smell so good. Wish I could knot you right now..." Sam pulls his fingers out, but then he's pushing something thicker inside.

Not his cock, Stephen realizes. Three fingers, maybe four. There's only the slightest twinge of pain as they slide in. He can't seem to say no or push Sam away. He's completely overcome by pheromones and lust. Sam could do anything he wanted right now and Stephen wouldn't stop him.

"I want you to come... one more time for me. Just like this." Sam starts pumping his fingers again. Slow and then faster. There's an embarrassing wet sound coming from his ass now, hot fluid trickling down his thighs. 

 _Oh gods_ , he's going to... It doesn't take much, maybe three more quick strokes of Sam's fingers, and he's climaxing again. It's slower and deeper this time and seems to go on forever. Sam keeps thrusting his fingers steadily, drawing it out until Stephen's shuddering and gasping.

He comes back to awareness slowly, almost reluctantly. He can feel Sam clutching at his hip, hear his harsh breathing. Stephen realizes that he's basically collapsed onto Sam's lap. The whole room smells like semen, smells like sex. Like Sam's arousal. Sam hasn't even taken his fingers out of his ass yet. Stephen can feel him still gently twisting them around inside, pulling on something and then pushing farther in. He's sore and sensitive now and it hurts.

"S—Sam... _stop,_ " he manages. It takes all of his willpower. He feels pathetic and completely out of control.

Sam actually listens this time. "Sorry." He pulls his fingers out, wipes them off on his pants. "Sorry. I—I was..." He doesn't finish the sentence, just slides out from under Stephen and heads to the bathroom.

Stephen can hear water running in there. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about anything. He still feels disconnected from his body. _Not his body_ , he reminds himself. Maybe that's why he feels like he has no control over it.  _What the fuck just happened?_

Sam comes back from the bathroom, climbs back onto the bed behind him. Stephen still hasn't moved. Sam gently cleans him off with a wet towel, pulls his pants back up. Stephen notes that Sam is now wearing different pants. He'd started to feel just slightly guilty for not reciprocating in any way, but it looks like Sam didn't need help.

Sam tosses the towel over the side. He lies down on the bed behind Stephen, tucks his body up against him until they're spooning.

Stephen feels tired, unusually so. Even after what they just did... he shouldn't be this exhausted. Sam's scent is calming, comforting, surrounding him. Stephen can feel it controlling him, making him passive. And he doesn't like it.

"What was that?" he mumbles.

Sam shifts behind him, presses his mouth against Stephen's neck. "Sorry, I... I decided we should try to speed things up."

"Speed things up?"

"Yeah. You can do... certain things to make a heat happen sooner. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. I figure our murderer is going to get the urge to kill again soon. I'm going to need you when that happens, especially if he's figured out this spell thing. Plus, we're just waiting around for those DNA results. Agent Sanderson can handle anything that comes up right now. You could stay in pre-heat for days, so I made a decision..."

 _Oh, tactical fingerfucking_... "I just... wish you would talk to me before you decide to pull shit like that." He has to fight to keep his eyes open.

"I'm sorry, man. I thought you might say no."

Stephen snorts out a laugh even though nothing about this is funny. "That's the whole point."

Sam doesn't get it. "This is too important. You said the world could be at stake if this asshole manages to get through. I need your help with this, man. I can't risk that happening." He and Sam are just too different, Stephen realizes. They're worlds apart.

He's too tired to argue. And it doesn't matter anyway. This is not his universe—he can't expect it to bend to his rules.

"Did it work? Did you speed things up?" He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Sam yawns. "Can't tell yet. I'll let you know tomorrow."

Stephen sighs and shoves at the pillow under his head. If he wants to fix this thing, he's the one who might have to bend.

 

***

 

Later, he dreams about the moon again. The real moon, this time. 

_It hangs thin and blue and high over the prairie. A crescent. Half-full, half-empty. Everything at once._

_The summer night is thick and hot, filled with bugs and their constant singing. Reaching again and again to a shrieking crescendo of sound and then waning again. So desperate to be alive and to find each other._

_He's making love to Anna in the short grass near the end of the pasture. That's what she calls it, 'making love'. Stephen has a different word for it, but she'd probably punch him if he told her. It's awkward and sloppy and over way too fast. Still, better than the first few times they've tried it. He makes her come with his mouth and his hands after. She presses her arm over her face to keep from crying out._

_They'll get in trouble if they're caught. Well... he'll get in trouble. Anna will be fine. "Girls will be girls," they'll say._

_They might beat him. He doesn't give a shit anymore. They can't touch him. He's got a plan now, a way out. He's decided he's going to be a scientist one day. Maybe help people like him, when he's older and he's free. He holds onto that now when they whip him or cut him. It's his secret and they can't touch it._

_He picks a snarl of dried grass out of Anna's hair, tosses it away. They both stare up at the moon. It's half-full, he decides._

 

***

 

The next day dawns ominous and rainy—traffic snarled and inching along as they make their way across Syracuse.

Stephen's head aches. Even after two cups of coffee, he's tired and grumpy. He runs his hand across his chin over and over again and stares at the water on the street, watches the oil slick on top shift and break apart and coalesce again.

"You okay?" Sam has been extra attentive this morning. Ever since Stephen woke up with Sam wrapped around him, licking his neck. He'd slipped away and escaped to the shower before that could progress into anything more.

In the shower, he'd thought about sticking his fingers up inside his ass, just to see... But he was too afraid of what he might find in there, what might happen... He jerked off to the memory of Sam's fingers inside him, instead. It had all been strangely unsatisfying.

"I'm fine," Stephen says. He actually feels a little sick. He'd been dizzy when he'd stepped out of the shower afterwards. And, ever since then, tilting his head the wrong way or turning it too fast brings on another wave of vertigo. And his head hurts. The incident at the warehouse, he decides, still catching up with him. He's never had so many issues working with magic before. Hopefully, today won't require him to use any.

Sam hasn't mentioned what happened last night again. Or indicated if his attempt to speed things up was successful. Stephen doesn't feel especially horny right now, just sick. And if Sam doesn't want to talk about it, that's fine. He decides not to bring it up. Not yet. He needs to think about it first.

Their destination is a depressed-looking brick four-square on a street filled with identical homes. No trees. A plastic kid's playhouse out in the rain in the front yard behind a chain-link fence. The home of the their victim, Marianne Carlson, and her former bond-mate, Jamie Nguyen. 

Sam holds a large black umbrella over both of them as the trudge up to the front porch. He looks like a stereotypical FBI agent today—tan raincoat over another identical charcoal-gray suit. It's a good look for him, Stephen decides. 

He, on the other hand, looks like a vagrant. At least his black coat covers up the worst of his three-day-old t-shirt and scrubs. Stephen keeps hoping that maybe this asshole will stop murdering people long enough for him to grab a change of clothes. Some shoes, too. His bare feet are already freezing and numb in the rain. Sam has never offered to get him any.

Sam shakes out his umbrella and knocks politely on the door. Stephen can hear a cacophony erupting inside—a dog barking and kids shrieking. The door eventually opens just a crack and a man peeks out. Asian, mid-thirties maybe, with tired red-rimmed eyes. "Yes?" A dog's snout pushes the door wider and the man frowns. "Ranger, no. Back."

"Jamie Nguyen?"

The man nods. 

"I'm Special Agent Wilson with the FBI. We spoke on the phone yesterday. Do you mind if we come in? We'd just like to ask you a few questions."

"Of course. Yes." The man reaches down to drag the dog back by its collar and opens the door wider. "Come in. Sorry about the mess." They shuffle off the porch into a living room filled with kid's toys, while the dog dances excitedly around their legs. There's a playpen in the center of the room with a baby standing in it. A young girl, maybe three runs off toward the stairs in the back. And two more kids, both boys, sitting on the couch watching a cartoon. A basket of laundry sits half-folded on a table in the dining room. Another little girl with dark hair in braids peeks around the edge of the kitchen doorway. Stephen smiles at her and she smiles back before darting off. 

Jamie Nguyen runs a hand over the back of his head, ruffling his hair. "Things have been... I haven't got much done since Marianne..." He swallows hard. "Since she died."

"I understand, sir. Is there a place we can talk? Maybe in private?" Sam gives the kids a meaningful look.

"Sure, um... Yes, of course" Jamie looks around, lost for a moment. "Let me just... Let me just get Mary. Just a moment." He goes and pulls the baby out of the playpen, rests her on his hip. "Kevin." The older of the two boys look up. "I'm going to talk to these men. I'll be right back." Kevin gives Sam and Stephen a long, blank look before turning back to the TV.

"This way. We can talk in the kitchen." They follow him through the dining room into the small kitchen. The cabinets are painted an old and chipped, but cheery yellow. Kids drawings tacked up on the fridge. Dishes piled in the sink and on the counter. Jamie gestures at a little kitchen table tucked into the back. Sam and Stephen sit down.

"Sorry... I'd offer you some coffee, but I don't really drink it. That was all Marianne. I just... didn't make any this morning..." He lets that thought trail off.

"It's no problem at all," Sam says. 

Jamie nods and sits down across from them. He looks back and forth between Stephen and Sam, sniffs the air between them deliberately. The baby tries to stuff her whole fist in her mouth. She's got curly, blond hair like her mother. Stephen wonders if Jamie is one of her fathers.

Sam doesn't bother to introduce Stephen, just jumps right in. "First, let me offer my condolences. I'm very sorry for your loss." He takes out his little notebook and flips a few pages. "I apologize. Some of my questions might be about sensitive topics. And you've probably already answered some of them."

"It's no problem. The police have already covered every sensitive topic, I think." He tries to smile.

Sam nods. "Was Marianne seeing someone else? Another omega?"

Jamie's features twist with grief. "Yes. I mean, I'm sure of it. I don't know who it was, though. She never told me. She knew it bothered me that she was... with someone else. I told that to the police yesterday. If I knew who it was, I would tell you. But I just... I don't."

"That's okay. How often do you think she was seeing him? Was it a one-time thing, or...? Maybe more regular?"

"Regular. I'm pretty sure. I know she's been seeing someone for a while. I think it was the same guy."

"When would she meet him?"

"During work, I think. She had a... a busy schedule. She was always working. But when she said she'd be home, to be with the kids... She was home, you know? She made the time... It was important to her." He stops talking and just stares out the window for a minute, mouth set in a hard line.

Sam waits patiently. 

The baby whines and twists. Jamie blinks back tears and looks up at Sam. "It's my fault that... that she's dead."

"How's that?"

"Marianne, she... wanted another kid. And I just... I _didn't_. So I—I bought some stuff on the street. It's illegal, I know. And I took it to stop, you know... To make it so I couldn't have any more kids. And Marianne, she didn't know. I never told her that I did that. She just thought I was sick or something. I just I—I didn't want any more kids..."

Sam shifts in his seat. "Sir, listen. That's not—"

"If I hadn't done that, if I hadn't tricked her like that... Marianne wouldn't have had to go out there and find someone else and... And she'd be alive."

The baby starts fussing, twisting around and trying to fling herself out of Jamie's grasp. "I'm sorry. She's just... just upset... Missing her mom." He turns to Stephen suddenly. "Would you... Would you mind taking her for a few minutes. So we can talk? Please?"

"Uh..." He glances over at Sam, who gives him a tiny shrug and a nod. Stephen scowls at him. "Uh, sure." He's not really that into babies, actually, but he takes the little girl when Jamie passes her over.

She calms down immediately, now that she's got a new person to stare at. He walks her out of the kitchen, through the dining room, bouncing her slightly. _Fucking Sam._.. 

The kids are still staring at the TV, mouths hanging slightly open—some cartoon about dinosaurs that are also robots or something. Stephen sits down on the couch next to Kevin, bounces the baby on his knee. 

Kevin gives him another long, bored look before staring at the TV again. His eyes are red-rimmed. And Stephen feels a sudden, intense pang of sadness for this kid and his family.

The little girl with the braids is back, peering at him from behind the edge of the couch. This is Jaimie's daughter, he's sure of it. It's the way she smells, he realizes. Something about it is just like her dad's smell. He's not sure about the other kids. He wonders what's going to happen to them. If they're not related to Jamie, does the state take them? A grandmother? Aunt? 

"Why are you wearing green pants?" she giggles.

 _Scrubs. Right_. "Uh... I'm a doctor. They're doctor pants." Technically, they're morgue pants, but he doesn't feel like explaining that. Considering why he was there...

"You're a doctor?" Kevin finally seems interested.

"Yeah, I'm a doctor." The baby is sticking her fist in her mouth again, drooling. Stephen picks up a rubber butterfly he finds on the couch and hands it to her. She shoves that in her mouth too. Teething, he guesses.

"Do you get to, like, see gross things and stuff? Like blood and... barf?"

"Yeah. All the time."

The girl with the braids giggles again. 

"What about..." Kevin thinks for a moment. "Did you ever get to, you know, do surgery and stuff on people?"

"Yeah."

"Is that like... What's that like?"

"It's awesome," Stephen says. It _is_ , actually, awesome. He misses it all the time. Every day.

Kevin nods solemnly. "That's cool." He turns back to the TV.

 _Good talk_ , Stephen thinks. He bounces the baby and waits for Sam.

 

***

 

Afterwards, they stop at a diner Sam likes for lunch. 

Stephen orders soup and picks at it. He doesn't really feel hungry. He watches as Sam devours a cheeseburger and fries, vanilla shake on the side. Sam doesn't comment on his lack of appetite, but he _has_ noticed. Stephen can tell.

"So..." Sam says around a mouthful of fries. "Places of power..."

"What about them?" He doesn't feel like talking much, either. About anything. He's still pissed at Sam for treating him like a babysitter. Sam claims that he didn't get much more out of Jamie after Stephen left, but he still wanted to be there to hear it.

"You said earlier that this guy's using places of power to commit his murders, but you couldn't figure out why he was choosing those particular ones."

"I did say that." He remembers now. Another thing that makes no sense. "There are ley lines and places of power outside of New York. Some are stronger, some are more isolated. They'd be better if you wanted to commit a murder. Why isn't he using any of those?"

Sam shrugs like it's obvious. "He's an omega."

Stephen frowns in confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?

"Right, sorry... He can't leave the state."

"I'm not allowed to leave the damn state?"

"No. Not without a bond-mate or guardian."

"Fuck." _How is this place real?_

Sam chuckles. "Sorry. It's just... that's the law. It hasn't always been like this. You just happened to get here at a bad time."

Now he's finally interested. "What do you mean?"

"Well..." Sam blows out a long breath. "The laws have been changing lately. We have a conservative government in place right now and they've been pushing for more restriction on omegas and non-citizens, banning heat suppressants, prosecuting parasexuals."

"What's parasexual?"

"Someone who prefers a non-compatible gender. Women who like alphas, omegas who like other omegas... That sort of thing." He shrugs. "Live and let live, I say. But the law says different... Anyway, it wasn't always like this. In the early nineties there was a big push back against the traditionalist government, their laws. And, well, it's complicated... But, for a while, a lot of the restrictions were lifted."

Stephen has a sudden thought. "Before the nineties, say starting around 1933... What was it like for an omega?"

Sam narrows his eyes, nods. "I see what you're getting at... Why did our guy stop killing for those sixty or so years. Is that it?"

"Yeah."

"It was bad then. Worse than it is now. Much worse. For omegas. For people of color. Anyone who didn't fit in with the traditionalist agenda. Once they came to power, they went full fascist. For an omega... He would have been property back then. Probably restricted to a breeding compound, unless he had an exemption." Sam shakes his head. " _Damn_. No one was trying to explain that gap because we thought they were two different killers."

Stephen stirs his soup around, thinking. They would never have found an answer for that mystery back home.

They finish the rest of their lunch in relative silence. Sam pays the bill, checks his watch.

"Where to now?" Stephen asks. He'd really like to get back to the warehouse, see if he can reach Wong again. He's also thought of some tricks he can try to see if there's still an actual connection between the universes. He's anxious to test them out.

"Back to the hotel," Sam says.

"But, it's..." Stephen looks around for a clock, but he can't find one.

"It's three. And we're going back to the hotel." Sam's tone suggests that it's not up for debate.

"Okay..." Stephen watches Sam's back as he walks toward the door. 

_Curious._

 

***

 

They rush back to the hotel room and just... sit around. Or, at least, that's what it seems like they're doing to Stephen.

He's nervous, at first. Maybe Sam expects them to continue what they started last night, speed things up even more. Stephen's still not sure if he chose to let Sam do that to him, or if Sam used the 'whammy' on him again. _Both?_

He watches for a while as Sam works on his computer. Tries to figure out if Sam smells different. _Maybe_... He's still not good enough at it to really notice subtle differences. He still smells good. Possibly better than yesterday.

Sam finally goes out around five, comes back a short time later with no explanation of where he's been. He has brought back Thai food, though.

It actually looks pretty good, but Stephen still doesn't feel like eating. He pushes pad thai around on his plate for a while and then gives up. He decides to have a beer instead. Sam just accepts all of this without comment, which Stephen finds suspicious.

"You're not going to call the hospital or have me committed because I'm not eating?"

"No." Sam is busy typing something on his phone with one hand again, chopsticks dangling from the other. "It's normal."

"What's normal?" Stephen has a feeling he already knows.

"It's normal to have no appetite when you're about to go into heat."

"You think that's going to happen tonight? Is that why we came back here so early?"

Sam shrugs, puts down his phone. "Yeah. It's gonna happen tonight. I was worried it might start sooner."

"How can you tell? Wait. Let me guess... It's the way I smell, right?"

Sam ignores the sarcasm completely. "That's right."

Now Stephen's getting pissed off. "Guess your little trick with the surprise fingers up my ass worked then." He's finally decided that he _is_ , actually, a little angry about that. Cultural differences be damned.

Sam chooses to not take the bait. "Yep."

"So... We're just going to sit around here and wait for me to start begging for your cock."

Sam finally looks up. "Yes."

Okay then.

 

*** 

 

Stephen feels oddly restless.

Now that Sam has proclaimed he's going into heat, he can't relax. It reminds him a little of the scene from _An American Werewolf in London_ , where that poor fucker waits around all day for the full moon even though he's sure nothing will happen. Of course, the movie ends with him actually turning into a monster and ripping a cop's head off, before being shot to death in an alley.

Stephen supposes he won't turn into a monster. But he will probably get fucked.

He tries reading the textbook for a while, but he can't seem to concentrate. He stands up and paces around the small room, stares out the window at the parking lot and the rain, tries watching TV. There's a selection of bizarre porn movies available on the hotel service, promising 'hot alpha on omega action' or 'hot omega on girl action', alternatively. But he's not interested in those and even the news can't hold his attention. He turns the TV off and paces some more.

Sam is ostensibly working on his laptop, but Stephen can tell when he's being watched. It's annoying.

He's not hungry, but he is thirsty. He goes to the bathroom to fill his water cup.

There are a few things sitting on the bathroom counter. Sam must have gotten them when he went out. A box of condoms for alphas, some brand name he's never heard of— _Alphaforce_ , he snorts in derision—with a picture of two men embracing, presumably an alpha and an omega. A long, narrow prescription box. The label on it says it contains one pre-filled, single use applicator of some brand name drug, _Andovamin_. The prescription's in Sam's name. Stephen's never heard of it, but he assumes these are the hormones he's been warned about. Soon to be banned, apparently. And one more thing... Something that looks a little like a long shoehorn, with a weird ball at the curved end. It's in a sealed plastic bag, but Stephen can tell it's made of slightly flexible soft rubber, all rounded edges. He assumes that this thing is also sex-related.

Sam is still stalking him, standing just outside the bathroom, watching. He seems reluctant to let Stephen out of his sight now, even in their hotel room. Stephen picks up the shoehorn. "What's this for?"

"It's a guide. A sex aide. It's, uh..." Sam shifts on his feet. He actually looks a little embarrassed, which is a first. "Your, uh, vent is inside, so it can be hard to... get everything lined up sometimes. They're mostly for idiots and people who are too uptight to use their fingers, but sometimes an omega's body can be different, so..." He shrugs. "I've only had to use one a couple times. And your vent was... uh, easy to find last night. But I thought, you know... Just in case..."

Stephen nods. "Okay..." He's surprised a species that needs a shoehorn to fuck properly hasn't died out yet. Though he supposes his world has Viagra, so maybe they're even... He picks up the prescription box. "And this?"

"Artificial hormones. We'll need that if you decide you want to use condoms. That'll stop the cramps. It's also useful if you don't want to be knotted—it can keep that from happening."

 _Knotted_. Like a damn animal, he thinks. He can't really recall doing that the last time he'd been here, when he'd accidentally had sex with Nic West several times. That whole day is a blur, but Nic had given him artificial hormones, he's pretty sure. He'd read a little bit about knotting in the book. In cold, technical prose, of course.

_After the initial ejaculation, secondary erectile tissues in the glans and the base of an alpha's penis fill with blood. At the same time, the omega's internal sphincters contract and the tissues of the vent swell, locking the mating pair together. While knotted, the alpha continues to ejaculate copious amounts of seminal fluid. Mostly containing hormones mixed with additional spermatids._

Sounds delightful... Stephen has to admit that he's a little nervous about it. He's already agreed to this, though. If this is what he has to do to save the world, he'll do it. "What's knotting like? And how long does it last?" He can feel his face heating up just asking the question.

"Uh, let's see..." Sam chuckles. He seems nervous, too. Or excited. Stephen can't distinguish the two scents yet. "Can't really speak for omegas. But, for an alpha, it feels pretty damn good, like a really long, less intense orgasm. It's, uh... it can last for a while. Maybe twenty minutes, or even hours. You can shorten that or make it longer, depending on... on what you do. But it usually only happens during one phase of a heat. After that, the hormones kind of put a stop to it. I mean... I'll still make a knot, but your muscles won't grab on as much."

Stephen nods. He picks up the box of condoms. "What do you, uh... want to do? With these and the hormones... I mean, if you had to choose..." He cringes at how pathetic that sounds. He's a fucking doctor, and he suddenly can't talk about sex. Weird sex, maybe, but it's still just sex...

Sam's scent has changed again, Stephen notices. Definitely excitement, mixed with arousal. The same smell from last night, when they... When he... He shakes his head. He's getting better at this. Or maybe he's just getting too used to being around Sam.

Sam steps closer and clears his throat. "I would rather not use them, if that's okay with you. It's still your choice, of course, but it's just... it's better without them. The hormones are important. The real thing, not that fake shit. And I would like to knot you. If, ah, that's something you might want to try. Some omegas like it, and some don't. It can be intense, I guess." 

Sam's scent is sharp. Now he's aroused. It's unmistakeable now that he's figured it out. "You're excited. Just talking about it..." Stephen says. "You're looking forward to this." He's not really sure if that's surprising or not.

"Yeah. Of course I am. You smell fantastic and I... no alpha would turn down the chance."

That's the thing... He suspects that Sam is just as affected by his own pheromones. Maybe he isn't in control either. "You don't feel like you're being forced into this?" He's not even sure what he's trying to say. Sam doesn't seem to worry about consent the way he does.

"No, man. I don't." Sam looks confused again.

This is another pointless discussion, Stephen realizes. He sighs and puts the box of condoms back on the counter. "What about sexually transmitted diseases?"

"I'm clean. I can show you my latest test results if you want. I figured, since you're a doctor and all, you might want to see that."

"I'll take a look, but I trust you. What about... me?" He realizes suddenly that he has no idea. 

Sam chuckles. "You're clean, too." He doesn't offer to explain how he knows that, but Stephen figures he has access to certain resources as an FBI agent. And as his guardian, apparently...

"All right." 

"All right, what?" Sam's being difficult again. He must want to hear him say it out loud. Maybe he does care about consent, but only sometimes.

Stephen rolls his eyes. "All right, you can fuck me without a condom. But I'm not letting you shove _this_ in my ass..." He holds up the shoehorn.

Sam grins. "Fine. I'll just get creative if I have to."

 

***

 

By seven pm he's feeling sick.

His face is hot and he's sweating. He definitely has a fever. His muscles are aching. He can't seem to sit still, though—even stretching out on the bed doesn't offer any relief. Even worse, he has an annoying erection that won't seem to go down, no matter how pissed he gets. It's too hot in their hotel room, and Sam's constant surveillance is getting irritating. 

He feels trapped. Sam's scent is making him crazy. And he can't keep pacing in here forever. "I'm going to go out for a walk," he says abruptly. "Get some air." He just needs to do something...

Sam shakes his head immediately. "No way. Not a good idea."

Now he's angry. He suddenly hates Sam Wilson and everything about him—the way he smells, the way he won't stop following him around, his fucked up views on relationships, how god damn calm he is. "Why the fuck not? I'm not your prisoner," he snaps. Stephen knows he's acting out of character, but he can't seem to stop it.

Sam is still perfectly reasonable, like all of this is expected. "You're going into heat. Every alpha in the immediate vicinity is going to smell you and come running." Sam snorts. "Even you couldn't hold them all off. And you wouldn't want to. Look... I realize this is very new to you, but it's not new to me. Just trust me."

 _Fuck you_ , he thinks. And fuck this world. He really wants to punch something or break something, which is... not at all normal. He locks himself in the bathroom and takes a shower, instead. The hot water feels wrong, almost painful against his skin, so he turns it to cold and stands underneath until he's shivering. 

When he steps out, he can smell Sam sitting up against the closed door, waiting.

 

***

 

By ten he's a fucking disaster—a sweating, writhing mess.

Reality has turned into a bizarre fever dream. He can't understand what's happening. His thoughts keep slipping randomly back and forth between the past and the present.

_He's at the hospital, in surgery, and his patient is bleeding out... He's in his wrecked car, hanging over the water... He's holding a newborn baby, wrinkled and wet, her eyes blink up at him in confusion... He's with Mordo, running for his life and the city is twisting around them... Christine is leaving him, for the first time, because he fucked everything up... Someone is tying a rope to his wrist, stretching his arm out over the dirt to a stake driven into the ground... Shadows fall across his naked body..._

Stephen whimpers and pushes his face into the sheets, tries to block it all out.

But Sam is calm, Sam knows what's happening. His scent is reassuring, grounding. He sits next to Stephen on the bed and rubs his back, tells him everything will be okay. It feels good, but he needs something else... He can't think anymore, can't focus. On anything except Sam. Sam is all that matters. The way he smells—so good, so perfect. _Delicious_. He wants to lick Sam, bite him, just so he can get more of that smell. 

But Sam keeps pushing him away when he tries to get closer. Stephen doesn't understand why he's doing that. "Sam...?" _Gods_ , he sounds so pathetic. He's whining. What the fuck is he doing? He feels completely out of control.

"Relax. You're all right. You're doing fine. It's not time yet. Just a little longer."

 

***

 

He's lost track of time completely. His belly hurts terribly. And he's horribly, disgustingly wet. There's something leaking out of his ass, making a mess of the sheets on their bed. He's already pulled all of his clothes off. He can't even remember doing that, but he doesn't even care that he's naked in front of Sam.

What are they waiting for? He needs Sam to help him with something. " _Sam... please_..." he begs. Another cramp hits him and he winces as more fluid trickles out. He feels terrible. He keeps forgetting where he is, what's happening... Keeps falling back into his aching body.

"Okay, yeah. It's time. Just hold on." Sam's taking his own clothes off, but Stephen's too miserable to appreciate the sight. He loses track of more time when another cramp twists through him, forcing him to curl up on his side. Then Sam is there, rolling him onto his back and getting between his legs. He can't seem to keep still. Sam has to force his trembling knees apart.

" _Stephen_. Hey, Stephen. Look at me, baby."

He tries, but he's shaking so much and his head is spinning. His eyes are blurry. Sam isn't wearing a shirt.  _Gods_ , he's too hot. And why is Sam calling him 'baby'? He can't remember what happened before. "I'm sick," he manages. "I wanna... go to the hospital. Where's Christine?" She takes care of him when he's like this...

Sam actually laughs at that. "You'll be fine. I promise. You don't need to go to the hospital. I'm going to help you now, like we talked about. Remember how you said you wanted me to ask? Is that okay?"

Did they talk about this? He can't remember... He can't remember anything right now. He nods. 

Sam pushes Stephen's knees up and then suddenly his fingers are slipping inside, into his wet hole. It doesn't hurt at all—it feels good. So good.... He wants more. Sam's fingers reach up inside him, exploring, and then they twist and push gently into something. A cramp curls in his belly, and this time he can feel exactly where it starts. Around Sam's fingers, in that space. He arches his back and groans, tries to flop around as Sam holds him in place. The pain is right on the edge of becoming something else. Something better... He just needs more...

He has a moment of clarity. "I'm in... heat." Remembers something that idiot doctor said—about an alpha's hormones... "Sam, I—I need..." he gasps.

"Yeah. It's okay, baby. It's okay. Just wait a little longer. It'll be better if you wait. I promise. You're almost open all the way. Almost ready for me."

Sam starts moving his fingers again, slowly in and out of that space. His _vent_ , he remembers. Stephen can feel the start of another cramp, his muscles trying to tighten on those fingers and finding no purchase. _Fuck_. He needs something bigger... He groans and twists against the sheets again. He trusts Sam, though. Sam smells so good, he must know what to do... Sam's fingers twist and pull inside him and he whimpers. And he's...

Sam is sitting next to him now, leaning over him, eyes dark and predatory. The smell of him is indescribable—Stephen can almost feel it dripping down the back of his throat, choking him, making it hard to breathe. "I want you so bad," Sam says. Sam's hand is on him, stroking his softening penis. Stephen shudders. He's just ejaculated, apparently. He doesn't remember doing that.

Stephen just stares up at Sam, confused. He feels like some time has passed, but he can't tell how much.

He looks around the room, down at Sam's body. He can't see very well, but Sam's erect penis looks so long. Too long. It could almost be twelve inches. The shape is so weird. He's not circumcised. The tip is glistening with fluid. As Stephen watches, more leaks out and runs down the shaft. He wonders how it's supposed to fit inside. He should be terrified, he thinks, but he's not. He's completely disconnected from reality. Nothing feels real. He tries to remember that this is not a dream or a memory from his other self.

"I'm in heat," he says again. 

Sam chuckles. "Yes, you are."

"I'm... I can't remember... what..."

"You're fine, baby. You weren't gone for very long. Memory lapses are normal." Sam leans down to give him a kiss, soft and almost chaste on the lips. "You're ready for me, I think. It'll be easier if I take you from behind... the first time."

He nods mutely and Sam helps him roll over onto his side, scoots up against his back. He pushes Stephen's leg forward gently and trails his fingers back up his thigh to his slick entrance, pushes them inside again. The head of his cock slips in right after, but no further than that. 

Stephen moans as Sam twists his fingers around inside. Sam's cock isn't very thick yet, but with two fingers alongside it, he feels very stretched out.

"Just try to relax," Sam murmurs. "It can be hard to find your vent the first time. After this, it'll get easier. Just relax." He pushes his fingers back into that spot, twists them around and pulls. 

Stephen can't help crying out. It's too much. " _Sam... Sam, please..._ "

"Shh... It's okay, baby. You're okay." He shoves his hips forward and slides his cock all the way in. " _Oh_... that's it, that's it, baby." Sam pulls his fingers out and grabs Stephen's hips, starts pumping hard and fast.

Stephen tries to figure out what's happening. There's no pain, but he can feel Sam's cock moving somewhere deep inside him. Not where he expected. Pressure on his bladder each time Sam thrusts. Another internal muscle cramp and the same building pressure he'd felt last night. It's getting harder to think again. He can feel something...

"Sam... I'm—I..." He feels so good. His toes are tingling and numb.

"Yeah... Do it. Come for me." Sam is panting behind him, pushing in. Then he bites down on Stephen's shoulder.

The pressure suddenly breaks and releases, sending waves of ecstasy chasing one after another through his pelvis. Sam pushes in hard one last time and Stephen can feel a hot rush inside him, hear Sam groaning against his skin.

Maybe this isn't real... "Tell me... what's happening."

Sam lets go of his shoulder, chuckles breathlessly. "Okay. Uh, let's see... I'm swelling up. Going to knot you. Because you feel so good. Then we'll be... _ah, Jesus!_ We'll be tied for a little while. And then, after that... you'll start to feel better. And then we can have some fun..."

 _Oh, this is knotting_. He feels hot and swollen and full. Shivery pleasure takes him by surprise when Sam's cock moves slightly inside him. And he closes his eyes, breathes hard...

He wakes up and things are different again.

Sam is still behind him, but they're facing the wrong way on the bed. Sam's penis is inside him, looser now, but they're not fucking. That's odd. And he feels better. _So much better_. He feels like he's drunk. His head is spinning. He vaguely remembers hurting before. But Sam must have fixed it. Sam smells incredible. Stephen tries to remember why... Oh, _right_.

"Sam..." he mumbles. "I'm in heat."

Sam laughs softly. "Yeah, baby. You already said that."

"I did?"

"Several times. You must be back now, huh?"

"Back?" That doesn't make any sense. He should have been here...

"Yeah. You were out of it for a while there. But now you're back. I can tell. You're not as talkative now."

Not as talkative... " _Fuck_..."

Sam chuckles. "Yeah. You said some crazy shit. Who the fuck is Doormoomo?"

"What... happened before? What's happening now?" He doesn't like missing pieces of his life, even if Sam doesn't seem worried.

"Well... I've knotted you at least five times already. Got some alpha hormones into you, to stop the pain and fix your head. Now we're just entering the copulatory phase. You should feel better."

"I feel high," Stephen says. _Wait_... what the fuck? "Copulatory phase?"

Sam laughs again. Apparently, this is funny. "Yeah. Didn't you read the book I gave you?"

"Uh... I haven't gotten to that part yet."

"Well... it's too late now." Sam kisses the back of his neck. "The copulatory phase..." He thrusts his hips gently. "That's, ah... when we can stay tied for a long time. Your body is gonna start... grabbing onto my knot. So I can... fill you up. As much as I want." He pushes in harder and Stephen groans. "Yeah, baby. Like that..." he whispers. "That's enough... talking. We should be... fucking right now."

"Okay," Stephen manages. Anything... Anything Sam wants. He pushes back when Sam thrusts forward. _Gods_ , his cock feels good inside. "Harder..."

"Yeah..." Sam rolls Stephen over onto his front and climbs on top, kicks his legs apart with his knees. Stephen gasps when Sam slides back in. "I'm gonna fuck you hard." He grabs the back of Stephen's neck and shoves him down into the bed. Sam draws his hips back until Stephen can just feel the swollen head of his cock catch on something inside. Then tickling warmth as fluid rushes out. _Oh, gods.._.

"Fuck, look at that..." He can feel Sam running his fingers through the wetness on his thighs, back up to his hole, teasing around the rim. "That's all mine. Have to fill you up again..."

Stephen moans and tries to shove back. Sam squeezes his neck, making his muscles go loose, then he slams back in hard, and then again, rocking Stephen against the bed. He can't think about anything but Sam. Sam holding him down. Sam inside him. Sam fucking him.

" _Fuck..."_ He's right on the edge, can feel his muscles starting to cramp, the inexorable prelude to orgasm, but he needs something else. "I—I want you to... bite me..." 

Sam doesn't say anything. He just stretches forward without breaking his rhythm and sinks his teeth into Stephen's shoulder. Stephen shouts as his muscles all clench down on Sam's cock, and he comes, hard and breathless. Then Sam's knot swells inside him and he loses more time.

Sam is sitting next to him again when he wakes up. 

This time, Sam wants to have him on his back. Stephen is nervous about it, but Sam insists, and he smells so good... Stephen can't help agreeing. The hormones inside him are messing up his brain chemistry. He's willing to do whatever Sam wants. He knows Sam won't hurt him...

Except, the angle is weird and he's not sure how it's supposed to work. Sam helps him get in position, moving Stephen's pliant body around. "Like this..." He kneels and sits back on his heels, pulls Stephen's ass up onto his lap, until his legs are spread awkwardly around Sam's thighs.

"Relax, baby..." Sam's fingers again, moving inside him, and then his cock... Stephen winces. But then Sam pushes forward and slips easily inside. He's still so wet. Stephen groans when another cramp begins and then his muscles are tightening again, contracting around Sam's erection. Harder this time.

" _Sam!_ " He grabs at Sam's hands on his hips, just to hold onto something.

"Yeah, I got you... I got you, baby." He rocks his hips forward and pushes in hard, and that's all Stephen needs.

He throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, body arching, gasps, " _Fuck_..." as he comes.

Sam keeps a tight grip on his hips, gritting his teeth and trying to hold still as Stephen's body locks them together. Stephen can feel Sam's cock already swelling, even as he comes, growing tighter like a plug inside him.

Now they're stuck like this—Stephen spread out across Sam's lap, boneless. He doesn't even care how he looks. He feels good, like he couldn't move if he tried. His body is hot and loose, out of his control. He can feel Sam's cock still pulsing inside him, filling him up. Little shocks racing through him. It feels good.

Sam reaches down and starts stroking his cock gently. Stephen hadn't even noticed he was still hard. His erection is almost secondary to everything else happening. Sam rubs his thumb over the head. Stephen groans when his muscles tighten.

"I wanna try something." 

Stephen's not sure he likes the sound of that...

Sam moves his hands over Stephen's flanks, down to his hips. Gives him a gentle squeeze. Then he pulls back a little, putting pressure on the knot, on Stephen's muscles, where they're joined. He moves forward an inch and then does it again, harder this time, tugging at the knot.

Stephen gasps. That feels... very delicate inside, like something could tear. He's not really sure if they should be doing this. " _D—don't_..." he stutters. "Don't... pull too hard." He holds on tight to Sam's thighs to stop him.

"Hey, it's okay. It's okay, baby. This is how you're gonna come when we're tied. This is normal. It's gonna feel good, I promise. I won't hurt you. Just a little. Your body's tougher than you think. You can take it. I promise it will be good. Just trust me, okay?" He's already started moving his hips, rocking back a little more each time. "I promise. Just trust me. Relax, okay. I won't pull too hard."

Stephen whines when Sam pulls again. 

Sam tugs at Stephen's hands until he reluctantly lets go of Sam's hips. Sam stretches out over him and presses his wrists down into the mattress on either side of his head. "Trust me," he whispers. "Just trust me. I know what I'm doing."

Stephen nods. He _does_ trust Sam.

Sam pulls his hips back slowly until Stephen can feel his swollen knot tugging at his insides. The pressure hurts a little and he makes a low sound in his throat.

"Shh... You're okay." Sam is moving again, just at the edge of how far back he can go—little jerks that send weird shocks through Stephen's body. He can't tell if he likes it or not. It's too alien. _Not his body..._

Sam pushes in and then pulls back. Hard, and then harder. _Gods!_ That does hurt. But it also feels like the start of something building up again. He's hot and swollen inside, over-sensitive. Pain and pleasure warring inside.

Sam keeps pulling steadily, and Stephen can feel tears of reaction slipping down the sides of his face, mixing with the sweat in his hair. He tries to twist his arms out of Sam's grasp, but Sam holds him down.

Sam is breathing hard above him now. "You're doing so good." He finally stops pulling and pushes back in, thrusting gently in and out. He can move a little more freely now, though still only an inch or two. Everything's still too swollen inside. "So good..." He slides his hands up Stephen's slick wrists, twines their fingers together.

Sam moves again and that feels even better than it did before. Sam's cock feels huge inside him. Stephen starts panting as the pressure in his pelvis builds again. " _Gods... Sam_..."

This time, when Sam pulls back, there's less pain and more pressure. A lot of pressure—he's afraid Sam might tear out of him. He can feel another cramp starting—his muscles contracting inside.

Sam can feel it, too. "That's it. That's it, baby." 

Suddenly, the cramp twists inside him, exploding into another orgasm. It's so strong and so shocking that he grabs onto Sam anywhere he can reach, digs his fingers into his flesh. Sam comes right along with him, flooding his insides in one hot pulse. Stephen's head swims. 

Sam lets him rest after that. Stays still long enough to let his knot go down, to let Stephen's tired muscles relax, until he can slip out. Even then, it's still too tight and it hurts when they separate. Sam shifts them over in the bed so they're not lying in the wet spot and wraps his arms around Stephen.

"Rest for a little while," Sam murmurs.

Stephen doesn't need to be told twice—he's so tired. So tired...

 

***

 

He sleeps and he dreams. One, another dream... All of his dreams now are about fucking.

_He's in his shitty off-campus apartment in Cambridge. He's sloppy and sweating from his heat and too much alcohol. Too much fucking... He'd stopped taking the suppressants just to see what would happen... Because why not?_

_Snow is falling softly outside, and piling up in the streets. It's winter break and neither of them have anywhere else to be. And Rajeev has never been with an omega in heat. Never knotted anyone. They thought he should try it. Just once, so he would know what it's like... Complete his education before they both become doctors, become rich and famous..._

_It's been... mostly hilarious so far. Rajeev had helped him through the worst of the cramps with some hormones. Stephen can't remember much of that, anyway. He'd made sure he was drunk enough, beforehand, to dull the pain. Bill, from down the hall had come and banged on their door, begged them to let him in. Stephen wanted to open it—have two alphas fuck him at once—until Rajeev reminded him that Bill's an asshole who smells like bongwater all the time._

_"Come here..." Stephen flops back onto the bed and pulls Rajeev down on top of him. They kiss sloppily until they're both laughing too hard to fit their mouths together. Drunk and silly._

_"Where the fuck did you learn to kiss?" Stephen asks. He knows his roommate prefers women over omegas._

_"From your mom." Rajeev grins down at him._

_It's such a dumb insult, Stephen can't help laughing. "Fuck you." Then they're both laughing uncontrollably._

_Rajeev's smile slowly fades, and he's shy again, dark eyes wide with lust. "Now...? Can I? I just... Sorry, I need to..." They've had sex three times already, but Rajeev hasn't knotted him yet._

_"Yeah. I'm ready."_

_"But..." He swallows nervously, and Stephen has to resist the urge to push Rajeev's sweaty hair out of his eyes. "I don't want to hurt you. Show me...?"_

_Stephen takes his roommate's trembling hand in his, moves it down his body. "Okay. Like this..."_

 

And then...

_He's in Christine's very nice apartment in New York. In her bed. She's looking up at him, smiling. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks beautiful. He leans down and kisses her. Wet and open-mouthed because he's still panting. Can't seem to stop. Something jostles him and he accidentally bumps Christine's nose. "Sorry," he mumbles._

_She starts giggling again. "This is so ridiculous. It's not gonna work..."_

_"It is. It is! I promise." A man's voice. He's laughing, too. David... something... Stephen can't remember his last name. Christine's friend—he's a pediatrician. And he's buried in Stephen's ass, knotting him._

_It's his third heat since the ban went into effect. He'd spent the first one alone, in his apartment and it wasn't too bad. But the second was horrible. Christine had helped him as much as she could, but he'd still spent three days writhing in pain. This time, Christine invited David to join them for his heat. And things are going much better..._

_Still... Stephen chuckles breathlessly against Christine's neck. He agrees with Christine—this isn't going to work._

_But David is confident. "We're all doctors, for God's sake! We can figure this out... Here... just, ah... You might have to turn around," he says to Christine._

_Stephen shuffles back a little to give her room. It's awkward while they're tied like this. David's knot pulls inside him and he groans._

_The other man's grip on his hips tightens reassuringly. "I've got you. Christ, you feel good..." He leans forward and bites at the back of Stephen's neck. The skin there is sore and a little torn up by now, after hours of fucking, but he still wants it._

_Christine had been content to just watch for most of it. But then she'd let Stephen go down on her while David fucked him from behind. And that was fun. David suggested they try something else while the two of them are tied._

_Christine looks amazing on her hands and knees in front of him. She smells even better. She glances back at him over her shoulder, grins, and rolls her eyes just the slightest bit. Yeah, Stephen agrees. This guy's full of shit._

_But they'll try anything right now. He lines up. David pushes forward and he pushes forward and... Oh!_

_Christine says what he's thinking. "Maybe... ah! Maybe this could..._ _work..."_

 

And again... 

_It was only a matter of time before he screwed up this badly. He's been on suppressants for too long, forgotten all the signs and warnings. And he's not regular, not yet, so he has no way to predict when it will happen._

_Friday night and he's on call, consulting in the ER. And it's a full moon, too, so every crazy person is out drinking and driving and hurting their idiot heads. He's been rushing around non-stop from patient to patient, scrubbing in and out of emergency procedures. He's tired and he hasn't been eating. The perfect storm._

_By the time he finally realizes what's happening, it's almost too late. He's smart, but he's stupid—so damn stupid—when he's in heat._

_Deciding to try to make it back to his apartment is Stephen's first big mistake. His second is getting into the cab..._

_The cab driver's an alpha—a huge, bearded, bear of a man. A little heavy and soft on the outside, but all muscle underneath. He smells as strong as he looks. By the time Stephen realizes the cab is not actually headed to his building, he doesn't care anymore. He's already soaked through his scrubs in the back seat, panting and desperate. He's gone._

_The cab stops on a quiet street, far from downtown. The big alpha slings Stephen over his shoulder like he weighs nothing and carries him from the car into the house. There are smells. Interesting smells. Two more alphas inside. Younger. One is so young, Stephen feels an almost rational pang of guilt. They go wild when they catch his scent, pulling at his clothes. The younger one drops to his knees, pushes his face between Stephen's legs. He whimpers—he wants all three of them. Right now._

_The big alpha soothes them. "Patience, little brothers. Patience." His pheromones fill the room, calming the young alphas. Stephen's insides twist and then..._

_He skips._

_He used to hate the time skips when he was a kid—they just added to the sense of terror and disorientation he'd felt. How helpless he'd been. Now, he almost welcomes the loss of time, the comforting dark. He knows what's happening. It's perfectly normal, especially during pro-heat, to have memory lapses. And he can forget some of the pain._

_He wakes up and he's good. He's so much better. The pain is gone. He's being knotted from behind—one of the young alphas, pulsing inside him. Filling him with hormones—prostoglandins and, and... other things. The medical terms have all slipped out of his grasp. The older alpha is sitting next to him on the bed, one finger brushing lightly over the small of his back. Something wet and cool—he knows now, he remembers. He's painting the traditional symbols, a blessing from the Goddess onto his back. They're Firsters then. That explains a lot. They like to fuck this way—in a pack._

_The man must notice Stephen's eyes sharpen. He smiles. "I can see you've left the church. That's okay, brother. She doesn't judge. We're all sinners, aren't we? When you think about it... we're all children of that clever old moon, after all..."_

_New-age, granola style Firsters, apparently. That's okay—better than the other kind, the assholes who tortured him. He closes his eyes and shudders as the young alpha fills him again._

_And skips..._

_The youngest alpha doesn't know what he's doing. He pushes around inside, but he can't find Stephen's vent. Stephen winces when he stabs hard, too far up his ass to do anything. Maybe he is cursed, he thinks, to have to put up with this shit._

_The alpha's getting frustrated, desperate but unable to knot. "I—I can't... damn it!"_

_The older man shushes him. "Relax. You can do this. His body's made for you. You can do this." He squeezes the back of Stephen's neck to relax him and slips his thick finger into his ass. He finds Stephen's vent, holds him open, helps guide the young alpha. "There. Now... pull out a little... And forward. That's it. You got it."_

_The young alpha shakes inside him. "Oh, shit! Oh, shit..." A rush of heat and pleasure and then they're tied._

_Another skip..._

_"Hey, gorgeous. Hey. Open your eyes for me. Come on, gorgeous."_

_Stephen does as he's told. He still can't see well—the room is spinning—but he can see enough. The big alpha, smiling down at him, deep inside him. He has a huge tattoo of the Blazing Sun across his chest. Stephen guesses he must have to shave all the time in order to show it off._

_The alpha chuckles gently. "I know it's sinful, to do it like this... But I wanted to see those beautiful eyes. The Goddess won't mind, I'm sure. She must've known, when she made you, what those eyes could do to a poor old dog like me..."_

_This old dog knows all the tricks, all the ways to work his body, to make him desperate and wet. And wanting. "I let my... little brothers have you first..." he pants. "Now you're all ready for me. Open just for me. Aren't you, gorgeous?" He pulls hard on their knot._

_Stephen cries out as pleasure breaks over him like a wave._

 

_***_

 

And then he's back. 

He wakes up, panting, coming down from another orgasm—a real one, this time. His body feels full and something warm is pressed up against his back. Sam, inside him again, he realizes, already knotting him. He can feel tiny shivers as Sam's cock pulses inside him. The other man's breathing is fast and hot against the back of his neck.

" _Oh_... damn," Sam whispers. 

He lets Sam pull on him again after they're tied. He's sore inside, but it still feels good. Sam draws it out as long as he can—pulling back until Stephen's moaning and clutching at the sheets, then letting him rest until he's ready for more.

After a while, he's lost track of how long they've been doing this. He's swollen and aching inside, desperate to come, but Sam won't let him, won't give him what he needs.

"Sam... let me... I want to..." _Fuck_. He hates to beg. 

"Okay, yeah. Sorry... I just... you're so hot like this." Sam rocks his hips, yanking on the tie. And that's good. It's right on the edge between pleasure and pain and it's exactly what he needs. Just a little more...

Sam is pulling hard now, and stroking his over-sensitive cock at the same time, whispering in his ear. "Come on, baby. Come on... You can do this. One more time..."

Stephen whimpers as he comes. Sam bites the back of his neck and holds on, teeth digging into his skin and drawing blood.

They lie in the dark after that, tied together. Sam nuzzles the back of his neck, bites occasionally. Stephen waits for his heart to stop racing. He wonders how much longer this will last. He feels almost normal again.

"You know..." Sam starts. Stephen can hear the smile in his voice. "You have another tattoo back here."

He tries to twist around to see, but quickly remembers they're still stuck together. "Where?"

Sam chuckles. "Right here." He brushes Stephen's lower back, just above his hips. "It's a moon."

" _What the hell...?_ " He has a fucking tramp stamp? " _Fuck_..."

Sam is amused. "It's not weird. A lot of omegas have them. I like it." Sam runs his hand down to Stephen's thigh, where his bizarre cult tattoos are hidden. "I like these, too," he says hesitantly. "I know what they represent... Maybe not to you, but... just knowing what happened to you... Still, I can't help it... They're, ah, a little sexy..."

He still has no idea what they are. "What do they mean?"

"They're a kind of blessing, I think. To ask the Goddess for a successful mating, to increase an omega's fertility. Something like that."

Yeah, that's also weird. "What about the hand tattoos?"

"Legal requirement for all omegas."

He was right after all...

"They rolled that back during the nineties," Sam continues. "But now they're required again."

"What's the point?"

Sam sighs. "Well, you know... So omegas can be controlled, their movements restricted. There are a lot of places you're not allowed to go. Things you can't do... Plus, it's... something everyone can see. Something that marks you as different. So people can decide how they want to treat you..."

Stephen can imagine Sam knows something about that. He decides to change the subject. "What's the point of knotting?" The book hadn't really touched on that.

Sam laughs. "Do you always ask so many questions?"

"Yes."

"At least you're being honest right now. Let's see... I'm not an expert, but... I think it's mostly like a plug to keep all of the, ah, the—"

"Semen?"

"Yeah. That. To keep it inside. Let the hormones do their job... Make you want it more." Sam emphasizes his point by nipping at Stephen's neck.

Stephen twists away gently. He doesn't want to fuck right now. He wants to talk. "Is that it?"

"It also keeps other alphas out. Keeps them from getting their genes in there. An omega's body can hold a ton of spermatids, from a bunch of different alphas. Make sperm from all of them... But if you're the alpha with the most in there, your genes have the best chance of getting passed on. If a single alpha can guard an omega when he's in heat, he will. He'll stay tied as long as he can just to keep other alphas out."

Stephen nods. That makes sense...

"But that's not always how it happens... Sometimes alphas form a kind of pack around an omega in heat, and they cooperate. They might... take turns knotting. Or two will knot an omega at once, get as much of their own genes as they can in there... That's not unusual. That's how it's done all the time, whenever an omega goes into heat... in some places."

Stephen can feel Sam shuddering behind him, breathing hard. He's been doing that every few minutes since they've been knotted. Secondary ejaculation, he remembers. He can't really feel anything while it's happening except small twitches inside. But it seems to cause his own muscles to start contracting rhythmically soon after. And that feels good, like a very faint orgasm. He groans a little and Sam squeezes him.

"It turns you on..." he says, after a few minutes. "Just thinking about it."

"Yeah, but... It's just a fantasy. I've never done it before. And I don't really like to share." Sam runs his fingers down the back of Stephen's neck, over the torn skin there. His voice goes quiet and low. "I could have that if I wanted, though. Right now. I could let our knot go down, then take you out there. Let every alpha in this place have a turn with you. And you would let it happen."

Stephen shifts anxiously. "I don't..." He's not sure what he can say to that, but it stirs up a vague memory from his other self.  _He's down in the dirt, on the ground. With two men. More are waiting._.. He knows that this has happened to him before and he doesn't want to remember it. Not right now.

"You asked me yesterday about rape. About why our laws here are the way they are. _This_ is why. Because we're talking. We're having an intelligent conversation. But you're not rational right now. You think you are, but you're not. Right now, I could do anything I wanted to you and you'd agree. You'd rationalize it, because you're smart like that, but it would still be what I wanted, not what you wanted. I could invite another alpha to join us. Or two or three. Even Arnold... And you would let all of us have you, knot you. Even two at the same time..."

Would he...? Stephen's not sure anymore. "I—I don't know..." He knows his brain is not operating within normal parameters, even if he's not as out of control as he was before. But he feels like he could still say 'no' to Sam if he wanted to. He just... _doesn't_ want to _._ Not right now.

"I think," he says slowly, "that I could tell you to fuck off if I wanted to." 

Sam chuckles. " _Really?_ Let's see about that... Luckily for you, I'm not that much of a bastard..." He gives Stephen an affectionate squeeze. "Here... roll over. Onto your front." Sam helps him move, settles heavy and sweating on his back for a moment. "That's it." He kisses the back of Stephen's neck gently. "Okay, now up. On your knees. I'll help you."

Sam pulls on his hips until he's up. It's awkward while they're still tied, but they manage to move together until Sam is kneeling behind him. He runs a hand down Stephen's back, over his ass, then down to where they're stuck together. Stephen can feel him running his fingers along the edge of his stretched rim. 

"Relax just for a second..." And then Sam starts working a finger in alongside his cock.

 _Shit_. That stings... Stephen tries to twist around, out of Sam's grasp, but they're stuck tight. "Sam... What are you...? Hold on..."

"Shh... You're fine. Your body's made for this. Like I said, you could take two cocks if you wanted. Your muscles are just tight right now because of the tie, that's all." Sam reaches up and grabs Stephen's neck, squeezes hard. All of Stephen's muscles go slack and he groans. The finger suddenly slips the rest of the way in.

"See." Sam sounds smug. _Damn him._

Stephen tries to get used to the extra stretch. It's actually not that bad, now that it's in there. But he wonders what the point of this is.

The other man moves around behind him. Still, nothing happens for a few moments. Then Sam is wiggling something in next to his finger. Something cold and rubbery.

_What the fuck is that?_

"Are you...? Are you using the shoehorn on me?"

He can feel Sam's chuckle through his whole body. "Yeah. Relax." He keeps moving it gently back and forth, slowly sliding it in under his penis.

_What the fuck...?_

Stephen tries to do what Sam says. It feels weird going in—a little cold and hard, and like it might be too big to fit. "I thought you were... too good at sex to... need that thing." He's starting to get a little breathless. On the edge of too stretched out.

Sam chuckles again. "It has other uses, too. You can use it to break a tie if there's an emergency and you need to separate. I'm gonna use it for something else..."

"What are you... going to use it for?" Maybe Sam is kinky. He has no way to know for sure, has no idea what's normal here. The damn thing must be pretty far in by now. No longer hard to move, but sliding smoothly. Still tight, though. He moans a little when Sam does something with it, maybe twists it.... He can't really tell what's happening inside. He wishes Sam would talk to him more. "W—what are you doing?"

"Shh... How's that feel?"

"Uh, fine..." Sam gives it another little twist and jolt of pleasure takes him by surprise. " _G—good._.." he gasps.

"Okay, that's good. I'm almost there. Just relax, baby." He pushes the guide in again and twists it around a little, using his finger to get it where he wants it.

There's suddenly a lot of pressure, and another shock of arousal mixed with pain from somewhere inside him. Stephen can't tell where it's coming from. " _Sam?_ " He's breathing hard now.

"You're okay. That's it... that's it..." The pain abruptly stops. And Sam must have finished whatever he was doing because he slips his finger back out. He leaves the guide in place. Stephen can just barely feel it inside.

The pressure isn't so bad anymore. He's still hot and trembling, though, and his legs feel weak. Sam runs a soothing hand down his back and Stephen starts to relax. He can feel Sam coming again, slow pulses that send little shivers through his insides. But, this time, something warm and wet drips out of him and runs down his thighs. He shudders at the sensation. That hasn't happened before when they were knotted...

"What's, ah...?"

"It's all right. Nothing's wrong. I just opened you up a little. And I'm gonna open you up a little more, so I can move inside you, okay?" Sam is still out of breath. "Just give me a sec..."

And then there's an odd twinge inside. More pressure and just a hint of pain, but above everything else, a tingling pleasure racing through his pelvis. It punches the breath out of him. "Oh... _fuck!_ What are you...? _What?_ " He can barely talk, he's panting so hard now.

Sam grabs at his hip to steady him, but the weird feeling doesn't stop. "That's good, huh? Just a little more... You're all right."

Stephen realizes abruptly that Sam is pulling on the thing inside him—it must be attached. The ball on the curved end must be stuck in his vent somehow, along with Sam's knot.

Sam starts tugging on it gently, rhythmically. And— _oh, gods!_ —that feels good, almost like he's being fucked. He's getting closer, but he needs something more. "Sam... _please_..."

"Hold on, baby." Sam suddenly pulls hard on the thing, and starts thrusting his hips. His cock can actually move now, sliding smoothly in and out.

Stephen gasps and fists his hands in the sheets. He squeezes his eyes shut. The two sensations together are overwhelming—the damn shoehorn pulling on him and Sam fucking him at the same time. He can feel the knot moving inside him.  _Fuck_ , he's so close... He's going to come again. "Sam, I'm... _gods_... I..."

"Shh... Don't come yet, hold on... hold on, baby. _Christ_ ,  _that's good_..." He slams hard into Stephen's ass. Fucks him rough and hard as fast as he can. Uses the guide to keep him open.

Even with that damn thing pulling on his insides, Stephen can't hold out. " _Shit_..." He comes hard, groaning and grabbing at the sheets, then fisting his hands in his own hair. He can't stop rocking back into Sam to draw it out as long as he can.

Sam comes with a growl and collapses on top of him, sweating and panting. " _Jesus fuck._.." he mutters. Stephen doesn't even mind. Sam isn't that heavy, he's decided. All he wants to do is lie here and never move again.

After a few minutes, Sam groans and pushes himself up a little. Licks at the blood on the back of Stephen's neck. "How... was that?" He's still out of breath.

"Sorry... dead from fucking. Can't talk."

Sam chuckles. "I'm serious. I wanna know."

Does Sam ever shut up? "S'good, I guess."

Sam rolls them back over onto their sides, drapes his arm over Stephen.

"I'm asking because I know you didn't want me to use the guide on you. You told me you didn't want that. That was basically the only restriction you put on this. But I did it anyway. You should be pissed at me because I did the one thing you asked me not to do. But you're not pissed. You didn't even tell me to stop. You had no idea what I was going to do with it and you still let me do exactly what I wanted."

"I was just... I wasn't that serious about it."

"And now you're rationalizing it."

"I can change my mind." This is a dumb argument, but he's too relaxed and full of endorphins to get annoyed right now.

"But you didn't. _I_ changed your mind. I've gotten to know you pretty well over the last few days." Sam's smiling—Stephen can hear it in his voice. "You're smart, and a little cocky, and you have a lot of very strong opinions. And you don't take shit from anyone. What I just did should have irritated you, at the very least. The fact that I ignored your wishes... It _should_ have pissed you off. But it didn't."

Stephen frowns. "I already said I don't care. Do you want me to be pissed off?"

"I want you to understand. You felt out of control before, when you were sick, like you couldn't consent. And you couldn't. Mostly because you couldn't talk. My point is that you _can_ talk now. But all you can say is yes."

Stephen's too tired to argue coherently. He closes his eyes. "No," he mumbles. "There. I just proved you wrong."

Sam chuckles and gives him a quick squeeze, whispers in his ear, "Guess I'll just have to teach you another lesson, then...." He reaches down between them and gives the guide a gentle tug.

Sweet pleasure sparks through Stephen's body and he groans. _Fuck_...

 

*** 

 

Later, he sleeps... His mind is free and open. He follows a familiar thread. To another place...

_He lets the alpha take him two or three times up against the side of the building. Rough brick scrapes against his palms, his arms, threatens to tear his shirt. The full moon is his only light and his guide, showing where to go tonight when he couldn't think. The alpha grunts behind him, shoves him up on his toes. He lets it breathe its animal stink onto the back of his neck, fill his body with poison. He needs this. As much as he hates it. Better—so much better—than the weak shit they hand out to keep his brothers quiet. He's already himself. He's smart again. He's a God._

_The alpha is trying to speak, trying to tell him something. Animal sounds. He ignores it. When the alpha tries to knot him, he pulls away, tearing them apart. The pain is worth his freedom._

_Tha alpha is angry now—poisonous like the smell of burning trash—but he doesn't need it anymore. Come back. Come to the car, he says. I'll let you knot me there. In the backseat._

_It's a risk, doing this so close to the car. Someone could see and remember. Someone could tell them. The ones hunting him. The one from the Other Place. But he can't always think. When he's like this. He's not smart. He's no better than an animal._

_The alpha is slow and stupid. Too slow to see the knife coming. Too slow to grab him as he dances away, out of its grasp. It staggers against the building and then slides. Mouth opening and closing, staring up at the moon._

_It dies just like an animal, uncomprehending in the face of an unmerciful God._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit that was long! This is the abridged version. And we're not even done with the sex yet...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen finds himself pulled between two worlds. Sam isn't making things easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: sexual harassment, rough sex, mild sexual coercion, unrealistic blow job, D/S themes, flashbacks to rape/non-con, Sam is kind of a dick
> 
> Probably too much sex in here, but it's omegaverse! So I have to do it. I hope you understand...
> 
> Please forgive my mistakes and inaccuracies about how hospitals work. I did some research, but I still don't know anything. And this is a hospital in an alternative universe, so that's my excuse.

_The extent of the use of powers during the war and their effectiveness is still a subject of great debate amongst scholars. There were reports circulated during the latter days of the war describing secret government institutions in which talented individuals worked day and night, focusing their gifts on divining enemy plans or thwarting enemy counter-intelligence._

_The United States government was even rumoured to have funneled extensive funding into eugenics research at specialized breeding camps. Within these secret facilities, those who displayed particularly useful talents were interned, with the hopes of producing a race of super-powered individuals. The hope, of course, was that these experiments would give the US an advantage in future conflicts. Whether these efforts ever produced anything of value remains classified. Suggesting, perhaps, that they did indeed enjoy some success._

Excerpt from _A Secret History of the Great War_ , by Isaac Nielsen 

 

*** 

 

When Stephen wakes up, the room is still dark.

The light peeking along the edges of the blackout curtains is the orange of the sodium arc-lights over the parking lot rather than the blue light of dawn. Not morning, then.

He stares at the digital clock on the bedside table until the numbers stop jumping around. 3:32. Early. He hasn't really slept at all. That fucked up dream must have woken him. He tries to remember it while it's still fresh in his mind. The knife, the alpha he murdered—white, heavyset, blond hair, beard, checked shirt, jeans—the old building, something about a car...

He tries to move, but Sam's penis is still wedged inside him. Not as tightly as it had been the night before, which is an improvement after being tied for so many hours. But the damn shoehorn is also still in there, he realizes. Sam's hand is wrapped around his neck. And the sheets are wet under them. They both smell bad. Stephen finds it all a little annoying.

He considers that a promising sign...

His ass is really sore and his abdomen feels uncomfortably full. Almost like he needs to empty his bladder, but the signals don't seem to be coming from the right part of his body. He stretches a little to try to get more comfortable and the movement accidentally wakes up Sam. The other man groans and his hand tightens on Stephen's throat.

"Hey," Stephen croaks. His mouth is so dry it's hard to swallow. Are they done? They have to be done now...

Sam grunts and fastens his teeth to the back of Stephen's neck. The pain of the bite is eclipsed by the jolt of arousal that sweeps through him, waking every sleeping nerve ending. _Fuck_. Apparently, he still wants it.

Stephen moans and pushes back onto Sam's cock, which is rapidly stiffening inside him. "How is this not over yet?"

"Few more hours," Sam mumbles. "Post-copulatory phase... doesn't last too long..." His hips have already started moving languidly.

"Post-copulatory phase? What's that like?"

"Should've... read the book..."

Stephen chuckles breathlessly. Always good advice... 

He _does_ feel different. Everything's looser now. He doesn't think he could clench his muscles down around Sam's cock if he tried. And he's so wet and slick inside, albeit sensitive and sore. His mind feels clearer, though. Sam still feels so good inside him, but he needs to do something... If they could just... _Shit_. He might actually die from sex.

"Stop. _Stop_..." He reaches back to grab Sam's hip, stilling him. "I—I need to drink something first. I'm dehydrated."

Sam fumbles around behind them and then passes him a plastic water bottle. At Stephen's questioning glance, he says, "I'm always prepared."

Stephen snorts. He manages to open it and get it to his mouth without spilling too much. He's desperately thirsty and drinks the whole thing. He could probably use more, but Sam is already fucking him again, even as he tries to finish the last of the water. "Hey... _shit_ , hold on..."

He drops the empty bottle over the side of bed and grabs onto the edge, pushes back into each thrust to get more friction. This feels different, more like what he expects sex to feel like—the steady slide of body against body. That knotting nonsense must finally be over.

" _Fuck_... Sam," he groans. "Harder..."

Sam is more than happy to oblige.

 

***

 

A half hour—and two more rounds of sex, later—he manages to slip out of Sam's grasp and lock himself in the bathroom.

He takes a piss—not a lot, he's still dehydrated—and then stares at his face in the mirror. _Not his face_ , he has to remind himself. _He stole it_.

There's a red flush starting at his cheeks and spreading down to his chest. His hair is a disaster. He's still terribly dizzy and he sways a little as he leans closer to the mirror. The feeling is not unlike the many times in his life he's gone to bed drunk and woken up still buzzed in the morning. Complete with the ache behind his eyes of a looming hangover.

Stephen wishes he could see the worst of the damage on the back of his neck. His shoulders are bad enough. He can feel some scabs forming there already when he runs his hand over them, but his fingers still come away bloody. Sam keeps tearing them open with his teeth. No pain, though, which is odd.

He twists around awkwardly to see his new tattoo. Sam was right. It's a crescent moon, of course. That seems popular with omegas. Tattoos seem much more culturally prevalent here, but he's still not sure what they mean. Is it an act of defiance? An expression of solidarity with other omegas? Or just a weird sex thing? Maybe it means nothing. He wishes he knew. He could ask Sam, but he feels an alpha's insight might not be accurate. He wonders why his other self felt compelled to get it. It's not a choice he'd ever make for himself. Another reminder that, as close as they are, they're still not the same person.

He gazes as steadily as he can into his stolen eyes. "Who are you?" he asks.

There's no answer, of course.

 

***

 

When he opens the door, Sam is waiting outside, in full-on predatory stalker mode again. Stephen has to wrestle him out of the way to get past. "I'm starving," he says.

He tries to eat cold Thai food at the little table with Sam draped over his back, biting at his neck. It's challenging, but he knows he's headed for another crash if he doesn't get enough calories now. His appetite has come back with a vengeance. And he's so hungry, he cares slightly more about food than sex... for now. He shakes Sam's hand off his cock for the fifth or so time, snarls, "Fuck off, I'm eating."

Sam tries to pull him away from the food again and Stephen can feel a low vibration building in his chest. _What the hell...?_ He's actually growling, he realizes. Growling at Sam. He can't seem to stop it. The sound comes out weird and muffled because he's trying to chew and swallow at the same time.

Sam isn't offended or even intimidated. He chuckles and says, "I was wondering if you'd figure out how to do that." He kisses slowly up Stephen's neck. " _God_ , that turns me on. Keep doing it."

"Everything turns you on," Stephen growls.

"Probably," Sam admits.

Stephen almost manages to finish the entire plate of food and another bottle of water before Sam's finally had enough. He swipes everything off to the side and pushes Stephen down onto the table, enters him roughly before he's ready. 

" _Fuck_." Stephen gasps at the burn. It's not much, and he knows Sam wouldn't actually hurt him, but it still pisses him off. He tries to throw Sam off his back. Sam retaliates by slamming him against the table, trying to pin his arms down.

After a short struggle, Sam gets a grip on Stephen's wrist and twists his arm up behind his back, huffs out a laugh. "I'm a cop, remember?" They just stay locked like that, both breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat.

Stephen tries to wrench away again. Sam growls—a low rumbling in his chest, it sounds much more dangerous than Stephen's pathetic attempt—and shoves him back down. They both know Sam could overpower him at any time by simply grabbing the back of his neck, but he doesn't. _Curious_. 

Stephen struggles a little more, but Sam's grip on his arm and hip won't budge. He turns his head to the side against the table so he can look back at Sam over his shoulder. "You... like it when... I fight..." he pants.

Sam gives him a knowing smile. He ducks his head down against Stephen's back and growls. The sound sends a shiver up Stephen's spine. " _Fuck_ ," he whispers. Apparently, Sam's growl is a turn on, too.

He hadn't noticed Sam's hand creeping down between them, until the tip of a finger tries to squeeeze into him next to Sam's cock. He's still tense from their fighting and it stings.

Stephen jerks and Sam leans hard on his back. The edge of the table digs painfully into his hips. He's going to be bruised as hell tomorrow.

Sam waits for him to stop struggling, then leans up across his back. "Submit," he purrs. He rubs his fingertip teasingly around the edge of Stephen's entrance. "I'm gonna do this. So you better submit."

That voice against his ear is almost impossible to resist. Stephen tries to relax against the table. It's hard with Sam pinning him down, when every instinct is screaming at him to keep fighting.

Sam presses forward steadily, rocks his finger, and it finally slips inside. Stephen sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth, waiting for the ache to subside. Sam's penis is still thinner than a normal one, even when erect, but this seems a lot more intense than it was last night.

Despite the tough talk, Sam is gentle. He spends a while just moving his finger slowly in and out, opening him up. "Relax, okay?" Sam whispers. "You're fine. You're okay." He pushes in deeper.

Stephen gasps when Sam finds his prostate and presses hard. An electric jolt of pain-tinged pleasure surges through his pelvis. Hot liquid suddenly trickles down the inside of his thighs. _Fuck_. He's extremely aroused, almost to the point of discomfort. He tries to shift his hips away, but Sam just chuckles and holds him tight. 

Stephen starts to shiver. This must be one of Sam's kinks, he realizes. Pushing him to the edge of what he can handle without actually hurting him. Making him enjoy it. He rests his forehead against the table, panting. " _Sam_..."

"Yeah," Sam murmurs. "You're okay... I won't hurt you. You're mine."

Stephen shakes his head against the table. He's not Sam's. He doesn't belong to anyone. He doesn't even belong here...

He keeps shaking his head as Sam pushes another finger inside. That _does_  actually hurt. He bites back a moan and breathes hard through his nose, tries to force his muscles to relax further. He's not sure how much more of this he can take.

He whimpers when Sam starts massaging his prostate, fingers working steadily inside him. He's leaking everywhere now—from his ass, from his painfully hard cock. He wants it to stop and he wants it to keep going. He's not sure what he wants...

Stephen tries to throw Sam off again, but Sam just pushes his arm up higher, leans harder on his back when he struggles. He gives up and lies still until Sam loosens the pressure on his arm. He's really trapped.

Sam picks up right where he left off with his fingers and Stephen moans. "That's it, that's it. Just relax." Sam's voice is gentle, soothing. "Relax, baby. You're okay."

Sam's fingers in his ass are driving him crazy. He can't come like this—he doesn't think it's possible. He needs Sam to touch his cock or, maybe, his vent. He's not sure. He still doesn't know enough about this body to know what he needs. Can't think properly like this. 

He endures for as long as he can, but he knows Sam's not to going to stop. Not until Stephen gives him what he wants. He's shaking and weak, eyes watering. He feels completely overwhelmed, at Sam's mercy.

He doesn't like it. And he does like it. Stephen's not even sure what he's feeling anymore. Sam is pulling him apart. " _Please_ ," he whispers. He hates to beg for anything, but he can't do this anymore.

"Please, what?" Stephen can hear the satisfaction in Sam's voice. This is what he's been waiting for. 

Stephen swallows hard. "Please... let me come." He can feel his cheeks flushing hot.

Sam kisses his back. "Yeah. Okay." He carefully pulls his fingers out, grabs Stephen's hip.

Stephen can't stop shivering. He feels cold and too hot at the same time, like he can't control his body. He can't keep from crying out when Sam pulls back and suddenly slams into him. He's too sensitive and it hurts. But then Sam sets a quick pace, hips snapping against Stephen's ass, and the pain gives way to heat and pleasure. He lets Sam hold him down and fuck him hard against the table, eyes squeezed shut. 

He sobs when Sam finally reaches around and grabs his aching cock, starts fisting him fast and hard in time with his thrusts. In seconds, he's coming—gasping and squeezing around Sam's cock, spilling over his fist, shuddering against the table. Lost, helpless.

Sam shoves in hard one more time, growls as he comes. "You're mine," he pants. " _Mine_." 

 _No_ , Stephen thinks, _he's not_. He doesn't belong here...

 

***

 

Stephen allows Sam lead him back to the bed, help him down onto the mattress. Sam presses up against his back, wraps his arms around him.

Stephen doesn't protest when Sam starts nuzzling his neck, but he tenses up when he feels Sam's teeth. He doesn't want to fuck anymore. He wants to be able to think again. To feel like himself again.

Sam pulls him back when he tries to roll away. "Shh... You're okay, baby. Just let me..." He runs his hands softly over Stephen's sore body. His scent is soothing, too strong. When Sam bites his neck, teeth opening a newly-formed scab, Stephen gives in.

Sam takes him from behind again. It's slow and gentle this time—Sam rocking against him, the hushed sound of their breathing filling the room.

Stephen feels odd. Dazed and listless after their fight, the rough sex that followed. Post-copulatory phase, he thinks. Culture shock, maybe. The alien hormones surging through his body. Memories that aren't his own crowding out his thoughts. All of the above, most likely. He needs to get out of here, get back home.

That thing Sam said... He's still thinking about it. What it might mean...

Sam reaches over and wraps his hand around Stephen's penis. He's still only half-hard, and he doubts he'll be able to come like that again for a while.

Sam doesn't seem to mind that he's so quiet. "You have the prettiest cock..." he murmurs.

Stephen suddenly realizes that even though they've fucked for almost ten hours, he's never actually touched Sam's penis. Not with his hands, anyway. He supposes it's been busy doing other things... That thought, combined with the utter unreality of everything they've just done, makes him break into a fit of tired, near hysterical laughter. Sam just looks at him, his face tender, understanding.

Maybe this is normal, too—the way he feels right now. Like he's in the wrong skin.

Sam lets him laugh until he's shaking, on the verge of breaking apart, and then pulls he pulls Stephen's head around and kisses him until he's breathless. Their bodies start to slide together, the movement becoming easier—growing hotter and smoother—until they're both shuddering in pleasure.

Stephen can feel Sam's lips, just the faintest brush of warm skin against his back as he falls asleep.

 

***

 

Sam's phone wakes him up. 

Sam is wrapped around him. Penis still inside him, he realizes, and hardening again quickly. Stephen's mind is sharper now—sleeping must have helped. That odd disconnected feeling is still there, but fainter. He's okay again. For now. His heat must be nearly over.

Stephen stares blearily at the clock—it's just after six. Call must be important.

Sam groans and reaches across him to the bedside table to grab the phone. He doesn't bother pulling out.

 _What the fuck?_ "Are you really going to—"

Sam's already swiped to answer the call. "Yeah." A pause. "Hey. No, no problem... Yeah. Okay." A longer pause. He can practically hear Sam grinning. "Perfect, give me three hours. Oh. Call Sanderson. You did? Yeah, she's got it. Thanks, Doc." He throws the phone onto the bed, rocks into Stephen's ass. "Hmm... You smell good," he murmurs.

Stephen can't quite believe that just happened. " _That's it?_ We're—we're just going to start fucking? What was the call about?"

Sam is obviously not bothered. "Yeah, we're going to fuck now. Roll over. On your back." 

Stephen tenses up when Sam pulls on his shoulder. Now that he's not so out of it, he can feel the old, familiar panic creeping back in. Another indication that he's almost himself again. Not a welcome one, though...

"Sam, I..." He swallows reflexively.

"Hey, man. You okay?" Sam's grip on his shoulder loosens, becomes a caress. "Hey... I'm sorry if I pushed you too hard earlier... That's just, uh, how sex is sometimes, you know... Between alphas and omegas."

Stephen shakes his head. "It's not that." Though it _is_ interesting that Sam seems a little guilty about it.

And Sam wasn't worried about him before, when he had him pinned to the table. His smell, Stephen realizes. He must smell like real fear now. 

Just thinking about being on his back is making him panic. It's pathetic. Stephen shuts his eyes and tries to control his breathing. He can get past this. They did this last night and it didn't bother him then. He let Sam bend him over and fuck him on a god damn table a few hours ago. Why is this so hard?

This won't be the same as what happened before, he rationalizes. This is Sam. He's warm and solid. Real. Human...

Sam is waiting for him to say something. Stephen scowls. "Yeah. I'm fine. It's just... _something_. Something that happened a while ago. I'm fine."

Sam's probably figured out what's bothering him. He'd be wrong about the details, but close enough to the truth. "I wouldn't hurt you. You know that, right? If you don't want to do this—"

"Yeah. Just shut up." Stephen's tired of letting this thing control him. He pushes Sam off so he can roll onto his back. "I'm okay now. And, _no_. I don't want to talk about it." He did this last night. He was fine. He can do it again.

Sam lifts a skeptical eyebrow at him, but his voice is mild. "Whatever you say, man. Here, put your knees up." 

Stephen does as he's told, watching Sam warily. Sam kneels between his legs, runs his fingers lightly up Stephen's calves, to his knees. Stephen jumps a little. Sam holds his knees, his thumbs rubbing in little circles along the insides. "Relax."

Stephen focuses on the tattoos on his legs—rune-like, with a series of little dots between each symbol, old and faded. He should figure out what they mean when he gets a chance. It shouldn't take him too much research to translate them—he's good with symbols.

Sam runs his hands down Stephen's inner thighs, fingers following the line of tattoos, distracting him from that train of thought. Stephen groans and spreads his legs wider. He's already getting hard again. Sam drags a pillow over. "Lift your hips up."

Stephen does, and Sam shoves the pillow under him. He suddenly feels too exposed. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm down again. "What did the ME say on the phone?" 

Sam chuckles. "Look at you. Talkin' dirty." Sam pushes a finger into his hole, then another, before Stephen can even think about it, starts pumping, twisting them around inside him. Sometimes pushing them into his vent, sometimes not. Stephen can feel the difference now. His hands twist in the sheets. Sam presses against his sore prostate and he moans. He's fully hard now and his cock is leaking.

"How does that feel?" Sam asks. His eyes are half-lidded, focused on his hand.

"Good," Stephen mutters. _Oh, gods! Sam's fingers_. He manages to choke out, "What did... the ME say?" 

Sam smiles at him. He grasps Stephen's erection at the base, looks up at him. "Do you want me to suck you off?"

 _Yes!_ "I want you... to tell me... what's happening with the case."

"Christ, you're stubborn..." Sam laughs. "After. Right now, I wanna do this."

Stephen really can't argue with that. "Okay."

He forgets all about the case when Sam's hot mouth closes over him. _Oh_... He's going to... Sam presses his fingers in hard, slides his mouth down. He's already so aroused, it doesn't take much. Stephen grabs his own hair and comes. And remembers...

_He'd gone with Rajeev to a club. A special one that catered to parasexuals. And Stephen's not like that—he's pretty sure. Ninety-eight percent sure, maybe eighty-eight, that he's not. But he drinks too much, too fast, and meets a cute boy there._

_An omega. His hair is dyed blue and he has tattoos on his face—precise lines from his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks. The softest brown eyes. He coaxes Stephen into the dark hall in the back of the club and makes him come with his talented mouth on Stephen's cock and his fingers up inside him._

"Oh, that's... Oh, gods... S _hit_." This is not that. He's with Sam right now.

Sam lifts his knees and pushes into him while he's still in the throes of his orgasm, trying to find his way back from another memory. He flings his head back and gasps as his muscles contract around Sam's cock. It's so intense, it's right on the edge of too much—his body tight and sensitive.

Once he's all the way inside, Sam leans over him carefully, whispers, "Is this okay?" His eyes search Stephen's face.

Stephen recognizes that he's shaking and breathing hard, probably scaring Sam. He nods. Sam isn't holding him down, he reminds himself. Everything is fine. He's not helpless here.

Sam smiles, then dips his head and kisses him deeply. When he starts thrusting, Stephen has to pull his mouth away to pant. That feels good—the angle is different, Sam's cock rubbing against his prostate. He runs his hands over Sam's slick back, hugs him closer.

Sam tucks his face in against Stephen's neck and rocks into him with long, slow strokes. "That was Doc Fuller... on the phone," he says, voice muffled against Stephen's skin. "Got a... match on the DNA... from Carlson's fetus. To the DNA from Bates' fetus. They're third sibs."

This might be the weirdest sex conversation he's ever had. He knows Sam is just trying to distract him. It's working. "That's good..." It's so hard to think right now. He's getting closer. "Ah... third sibs... So, then... same father. I mean, uh... one father must be the same. The omega... Our killer. So... What now? _Oh, fuck!_ "

Sam suddenly shoves in hard and grinds his hips. "Tell you… when we're done..." He braces his arms under the backs of Stephen's thighs, pushes his knees higher. "Shut up for now..." 

Apparently, they're done talking.

 

*** 

 

Sam's phone rings again while Stephen is sitting at the table eating, wearing clothes finally.

He feels better now—that weird disconnected feeling from before mostly gone. It's not important—he's decided—what Sam said earlier. Just talk, the sort of meaningless thing lovers say in the heat of passion. The only thing that matters is catching the killer. Getting home. He can push all of the rest of this aside to focus on that.

The conversation is short—barely more than a few monosyllabic grunts and a disappointed sound from Sam before he hangs up. Stephen can guess what it was about.

"No match in the databases," Stephen says. "You didn't get a name."

Sam tosses the phone onto the desk, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "Yeah. No matches." Stephen can smell his frustration from across the room.

"Another dead end." Stephen sets his plate aside, appetite suddenly gone. He remembers his dream—or vision—from last night. Something about the way the killer was fixated on his car. Stephen feels that might be important. He should tell Sam.

Sam sits down on the bed, running his fingers over his goatee, obviously thinking. "Maybe not..."

"What do you mean?"

"We didn't get a name," Sam concedes. "But now we have a witness. Someone who's met this asshole." Sam shrugs. "Fucked him, even. Maybe he knows this guy's name. At the very least, we can get a description."

It only takes Stephen a second to catch up. "The alpha—the other father of Lucy Bates' fetus. The one whose DNA was in the criminal database."

Sam grins. "Right. Max Fulton."

"Good catch. I don't know if I would've thought of that..."

"That's why I'm the FBI agent and you're the wizard."

"Sorcerer," he corrects. "So, what do we do next? He's in prison in New Jersey, right? When do we go interview this guy?"

Sam hesitates. "I'm going to go interview him. You're going back to your life for a couple days."

" _What?_ Why?"

"You can't go with me, man. Sorry."

That doesn't make sense. "Wait... You said, with a hold, I could go anywhere with you. I assume that means out of state."

"That's right. But there's no way I could get away with taking you into an alpha prison smelling like this. You'd cause a fucking riot in there. It'll be at least another few days before your hormones settle. And we need to get this done now."

"Damn it, Sam... This is important."

Sam holds up a hand. "One day, okay. Two at the most. If anything comes up, I'll call you right away. I promise."

Stephen's not sure why this is bothering him so much. He hates feeling useless. The case is everything, of course—catching this asshole. And Stephen knows Sam can handle this part on his own. He _is_ an FBI agent, after all. But the thought of not being with Sam bothers him, too.

Just hormones, he thinks. He hopes...

Sam can sense that he's upset. Maybe smell it on him. He walks over. "Hey. Come here," he murmurs. He turns Stephen's face up toward him with a gentle hand, leans down to kiss him softly on the lips.

Stephen allows the kiss, but pulls away before it can get serious again. He's still unhappy about being left behind. "Shower," he says. "I need a shower."

Sam's eyes light up. "Me too."

"No." Stephen shakes his head. "Absolutely not."

 

***

 

The shower stall is really not made for two adults, but they manage to squeeze in.

Stephen lets Sam gently wash his back—the other man is careful to avoid his torn nape and shoulders—but he shifts away when Sam's fingers trail down to his ass.

He's more interested in admiring Sam's body right now. His heat might be nearly over, but he's still horny. And Sam has a nice body—well-muscled, but not bulky. Sam hums happily when Stephen runs his hands up his chest to his shoulders. And then snorts when Stephen tilts his head so he can get a better look at Sam's stitches.

"Healing well," Stephen says. "You're lucky that brick didn't do more damage."

"I was lucky you were there."

He huffs. "I fucked it up. Almost made him drop the brick right on your head. I should've just shoved _you_ out of the way, but I wasn't thinking."

"You still saved my life."

Stephen grunts. He doesn't want to think about what might have happened. He takes the soap from Sam, says, "Turn around."

Sam gives him a knowing little smile and does as he says. Stephen lets his soaped hands wander over Sam's back, working at his muscles, digging his fingers in. He can do that here without pain, so he might as well enjoy it while he can.

"I had a dream last night," Stephen says. "Or, maybe... it was a vision."

Sam glances at him over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"The killer. He was in heat. I think he met an alpha somewhere and killed him. Somewhere..." He frowns, trying to remember the details—gravel, weeds, something rough against his arms as he leaned against it... "There was an old brick building. Industrial. Maybe a garage."

"An old brick building in New York," Sam muses, "That'll be easy to find."

Stephen scowls at Sam's back. "Asshole. And he was worried about his car—that someone might see it and connect him to it. Somehow..."

"Did you see the car?"

"No." Stephen shakes his head, keeps massaging—Sam has really nice shoulders—and remembers something else... "He knows I'm here. That I followed him back. He knows I'm looking for him."

Sam grunts. Stephen lets go of his shoulders so he can turn around. "We'll get him," Sam says. He pulls Stephen in for another kiss. Stephen can feel Sam's cock brushing against his hip. He breaks away so he can look down.

Sam's weird penis and lack of testicles are still jarring, but Stephen's getting used to it. Sam is still mostly erect, even after almost ten hours of sex. He's lost track of how many times they've come. Stephen wonders how that's physiologically possible.

He hasn't yet had the chance to explore Sam. He reaches out, but then hesitates, suddenly apprehensive despite everything they've already done. "Can I...?"

Sam laughs. "Of course, man."

So bizarre... to feel it in his hand. Sam's skin is smooth and soft. Stephen moves his hand from the base up to the glans first, feeling around. The whole thing is a little too thin—doesn't feel at all like holding his own penis. He wraps his fingers around the shaft and slides Sam's foreskin back so he can see better. Sam makes a low sound in his throat and clear fluid dribbles out of his urethra, quickly washed away by the water.

Stephen has a sudden impulse to get down on his knees in front of Sam, so he does. Now he can see everything much better even with the water running over his head and into his eyes. He runs his hand along Sam's cock, down to the base. He touches there lightly, feeling the looser flesh—the place where Sam's knot formed. Bruises are visible there against Sam's dark skin.

Stephen looks up, confused. "Did I hurt you?" he asks.

"No. That's normal," Sam murmurs. "Just... from my knot." He cards his fingers through Stephen's hair gently.

Stephen can feel Sam getting more excited. Smell him. Almost... taste him. He swallows hard. "I want to, uh... blow you. But I don't... It's not something I really know how to do. Even with a normal cock." He shakes his head slightly. "Sorry. I mean, one from my world." He's done this before—with Mordo—but he doesn't really remember most of that. Maybe, he's tried to forget...

"Yeah," Sam breathes. His cock hardens slightly in Stephen's grip. "Whatever you're comfortable with. I'd like that."

Stephen presses his face against Sam's belly, turns his head so he can see. He watches his hand slide back and forth, working Sam's foreskin down, exposing the deep purple head of his cock. Sam's hand tightens in his hair. 

He leans forward and presses his lips against Sam's length, runs his hand up and down his slick skin. He pulls his head back a little, trailing his mouth up so he can kiss the glans, hears Sam gasp above him. Pre-come or semen, or something else—Stephen's not sure what to call it here—leaks out against his lips, mixes with the water flowing over them. Stephen leans in and licks the rest of the fluid off. Sam's cock twitches in his hand and more fluid spurts out onto his tongue. It doesn't taste bad, exactly... Just slightly bitter and salty. A little like the way Sam smells.

And familiar. The taste seems to waken the memories of his other self. He's done this before, he realizes. Many times. He does know what to do. It's just locked away in his head somewhere. A memory rises to the surface...

_The cute boy from the club helps Stephen down to his knees. He's never done this before willingly. Memories of being held down and choked on alpha cocks have kept him from ever trying it again now that he's free. And he's never done it with an omega. But the cute boy is gentle and patient. And tells him exactly what to do. And it's not so bad. Not bad at all. His penis is thicker than Stephen's used to, but shorter, and he tastes odd and sweet. It feels good, to get someone off like this..._

"Hey, man. You there?"

Stephen blinks his eyes, breathing hard, remembers where he is. Who he is. "Yeah, sorry. Memories." Not his memories. Not his life. He's been getting mixed up like this more often. It's worrying. He pushes the thought aside, tries to focus on Sam. Real. Right in front of him, waiting for him to do something.

He leans forward to lick again, take a little more of Sam's cock in his mouth, enough so he can close his lips around the head and suck. He knows what he likes and assumes it must be the same for men here—alphas or omegas. He slides his mouth down a little and then back up, increasing the suction. Sam groans above him. More liquid floods his mouth and Stephen swallows it. 

A wave of dizziness washes over him, and that weird sense of relaxation is back—like he's floating outside of his body. Sam's pheromones or hormones, controlling him again, making him feel good. This time, he doesn't mind.

Sam starts moving his hips, very gently fucking his face. Stephen takes him in deeper. It's an odd feeling—the swollen tip of his cock pushing against the back of his throat. Only slightly uncomfortable, and the sounds Sam is making are arousing.

" _Fuck_ , that's so good. You're so good. Yeah. Come on, baby." Sam pushes a little harder against his soft palate, but his hands are soft in Stephen's hair. "Can you swallow? Come on..."

Stephen tries, but it's difficult with something stuck back there. He panics a little when Sam groans and pushes too far into his throat, far enough to make him gag. He can feel fluid pooling in his throat and he tries to swallow it, his throat muscles working around Sam's length. It's too much and he chokes a little, hands flying up and clutch at Sam's hips.

Sam immediately pulls back. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Stephen rasps. His throat is already sore. He shakes the water out of his eyes and takes Sam's cock in his mouth again. This time, Sam is careful not to push. Stephen works his mouth up and down Sam's cock. He feels more relaxed now, so he tries the swallowing trick again—letting Sam push all the way into the back of his throat. 

Sam jerks above him, shoving his cock in a little farther. "Oh. _Fuck_..." he whispers. More fluid. This time, Stephen swallows it all. 

That was better. He didn't gag or panic. His throat feels pleasantly numb. He could probably take Sam deeper now. The third time he tries it, Sam's entire body tenses like a bowstring and he tugs at Stephen's hair. 

"S—Stephen? _Hey_ ," he gasps.

Stephen pulls his mouth off, looks up at Sam. "What?"

Sam is panting and shaking. "That was too good, man. I'm gonna come if you keep doing that. And it's, ah, a lot. I don't wanna... I don't wanna choke you. I just wanted to... warn you. Since you haven't done this before."

"I have done this before," he murmurs. He remembers now... when he was in Nebraska...

_The pain of his bare knees against a rough wooden floor, his face pressed into pubic hair, an alpha's cock down his throat, knot swelling inside him. The man's hand caresses his neck. Stephen struggles to stay still, to submit, like he's been taught. But he's choking..._

A bad memory. Stephen pushes the thought aside, takes Sam back in his mouth as deep as he can, swallows him down. He grabs Sam's hips when he tries to pull away again. Sam gasps, " _Fuck! Oh, god..._ I'm _—_ "

Sam's cock thickens and he presses hard against the back of Stephen's throat. Salty fluid fills Stephen's mouth. He tries to swallow it all, but it _is_ a lot—more than he can get down at once. He breathes and then swallows again around Sam's cock and Sam groans. He's still coming, apparently. Stephen starts feeling light-headed after three or four swallows. He can feel Sam's cock pulsing, Sam's hands gentle in his hair. He can breathe. He's not choking this time. He's fine. Sam isn't like those other alphas. He would never hurt him like they do...

"Stephen. Hey, baby..."

Sam's voice wakes him. "What?" he croaks. Sam's cock isn't in his throat anymore. Stephen doesn't remember that happening. The shower is running. He's leaning against Sam, still on his knees. Sam's fingers are petting his face. Did he black out again?

"You got a little quiet there. You okay, man?"

"I'm fine. Just... memories." Not his life, he reminds himself.

Stephen sways a little when he stands up. "Whoa..."

Sam grabs him and leans him against the shower wall. "Yeah, that can happen. Sorry. I forgot to warn you."

Stephen tips his head back against the wall, rubs his forehead. He's a little dizzy, but not sick. He feels drunk again. "Pheromones, right?"

"My hormones. Yeah. It'll fade in a few minutes. Meanwhile..." Sam's hand trails down his chest to his groin, wraps around his erection, glides up and then down.

Stephen hadn't realized he was still hard.  _Oh, that feels good_... "It's a... four hour drive... back to the city," he pants.

"We have time. No one's expecting you until the afternoon."

Stephen tips his head forward so he can watch Sam stroke his cock. Seeing it is almost as erotic as feeling it. "Oh, uh... in that case. I, uh... ah," he stammers. It's hard to remember what he was trying to say when Sam is rubbing his thumb across his slit like that. "You should, uh, keep, uh..." Sam twists his palm over the head and his mind goes blank. 

"What should I keep doing?" Sam asks. His hand slows down and his grip loosens.

Stephen groans and thumps his head back against the shower wall. "Just get me off, you asshole."

Sam chuckles. "Say 'please' and I might..."

 _Evil bastard_ , Stephen thinks. 

 

***

 

It takes them a little over four hours of Sam weaving in and out of traffic to get back to New York.

Even though Stephen's exhausted, Sam's erratic driving is making him too nervous to sleep. Past trauma, he thinks. From his accident. And the lingering dizziness from his heat is making him queasy, so he rolls the window down.

He stares outside at the scenery flying by and desperately wishes for a cigarette. He doesn't smoke here—he's pretty sure—but he used to. All of the old familiar cravings are making him restless.

They pass fields that are still lying fallow, woods that are flushed with green at the start of spring. The roads are wet for miles. The rain last night must have been extensive. Stephen breathes in the sweet scent of moist dirt, remembers... _Nebraska_. Not something bad, though...

This time he chases the memory, following it back, deep down into the other Stephen's past. _His_ past...

 _Alex_ , he remembers. Alex was his friend a long time ago. Stephen can picture him now. Blond and stocky, with a plain, pleasant face, brown freckles across his nose—a real farm boy.

He delves deeper and remembers...

_Building a fort in a corner of one of the fields with Alex one autumn when they were twelve. They'd worked hard for days—tying the dry corn stalks together at their tops to block out as much light as they could, clearing out the inside of rocks and sticks so they can lie on soft dirt._

_Alex has a stack of magazines that some of the older boys had smuggled into the compound. They're dirty and torn and some are more than ten years old, but Stephen still finds them fascinating. Mostly, the old National Geographics. Pictures of India and Nepal and Cameroon. He had no idea that there were so many amazing places in the world. So many kinds of people. Had no idea that anywhere could be so different from Nebraska._

_Alex is more fascinated with some old porn magazines for alphas. They both stare at the lurid photos as he turns the pages, horrified and a little awed—omegas in various states of undress, sometimes lounging in sexy poses and wearing strange clothes, sometimes performing various sex acts with alphas or women._

_They know all about sex, of course—that's just part of growing up on a farm. But some of the things in these magazines are really bizarre. Stephen's not even sure how anyone could make a baby like that. And what's the point, otherwise?_

_Alex swallows nervously next to him. "Do you think you'd ever wanna... do that some day?"_

_Stephen glances over to see what Alex is looking at. A picture of an omega on his knees tied to some kind of metal rack, ass stuck in the air, thighs shiny and wet. A naked alpha, muscled back to the camera, has his fingers inside him. The omega's looking over his shoulder. The expression on the his face is almost, but not quite, pain. Stephen can't even decipher it._

_He wrinkles his nose. "It looks horrible," he says. The picture actually reminds him of working in the dairy barns, artificially inseminating cows. Their bodies lined up side-by-side, necks in stanchions, muscles twitching, waiting._

_"Yeah," Alex agrees. "I don't think I'd like that either." His face is red. He sets the magazine aside, pick at a hole in the knee of his jeans. "D'ya wanna, though... try kissing? Maybe?"_

_Interesting. Stephen looks more closely at Alex. He's nervous, sweating, eyes downcast. He smells scared and excited. Stephen shrugs. "Sure." He's never turned down the chance to try something new._

_"Oh... Okay," Alex says. He licks his lips and lunges forward, presses his mouth against Stephen's._

_Alex is too close to see, so Stephen closes his eyes. His lips are mostly dry and soft. Stephen can feel his teeth pressing behind them. The other boy puts a hand on his shoulder, light and hot. Alex smells like Alex—like fresh dirt and cows and rain. Stephen wonders what Alex tastes like. He parts his lips just a bit so he can stick the tip of his tongue out. Salty, he decides._

_Alex pulls away after a minute, sits back in the dirt, breathing hard. "Wh—what did you think?"_

_Stephen shrugs again. "S'okay, I guess." He's going to need more data before he makes up his mind about kissing. It wasn't horrible, though. He picks up his National Geographic again._

_A few days later, Alex's older sister and her friends find them in the fort. They stomp the stalks flat and steal back the magazines. Stephen wants to fight them, but Alex holds him back._

_"We'll just build another one," he whispers. "I know a good place. Down in those trees by the creek. There's a bunch of old wood there. We can build a better one."_

"You okay?" Sam asks.

Stephen shakes his head slightly. _Sam_. _He's in the car with Sam._ "What?" he asks. It's hard to come back.

"You just seem really quiet again. Something bothering you?"

"Just memories," he says.

His first kiss, he thinks.

 

***

 

Their first stop in the city is Stephen's apartment.

Sam waits patiently while Stephen fumbles with his keys and finally opens the four locks. He'd wondered, before, why there were so many, but he has an idea now. He holds the the door until Sam steps in and then shuts it behind them.

Sam looks around curiously. "Nice place," he says eventually. "Small, but nice." He walks over to one of the floor-to-ceiling shelves and stops. "You must like to read."

Stephen shrugs. "Yeah. We both like to read." He gestures down the hall at the bedroom. "I'm going to just... get changed, I think."

Sam has moved on to the record collection, pulling a few out to look at the sleeves. Stephen has the sudden urge to tell him not to fuck up the order of the albums on the shelves. He ignores it, doesn't say anything. It's not his record collection, after all.

Sam has apparently found something he likes. "Okay, man," he says without turning around.

Stephen shrugs and heads to his bedroom. He pulls a clean pair of underwear and scrubs—pants and a shirt—out of a drawer, tugs them on, trying to ignore the pain in his hips when his fingers accidentally brush his skin. Then socks and shoes. It feels a little surreal to actually be wearing them again. 

In the bathroom, Stephen wets his hair down and combs it back. If he stays here any longer, he might need to get a haircut. He pauses, considering his reflection. He's still self-conscious about the way he looks. There are dark circles under his eyes. The front and sides of his neck are covered in bruises and small cuts from Sam's teeth. A few larger scabs are visible on his shoulders, peeking out from under his shirt. Nothing he can do about that now, though.

Sam appears in the mirror behind him, apparently tired of fucking up his record collection. He watches as Stephen pokes at his neck, adjusts his shirt to cover up the worst of the damage. It's not working. 

Stephen glances up at Sam in the mirror. "No one's going to care if I look like a junkie who got mauled by a tiger?"

Sam snorts. "No, man. It's normal."

Everything's normal here. "Fine." He sighs and gives up, tries to decide if he needs to shave yet. Probably not.

"You'll need to be careful today. At work," Sam says after a few moments.

Stephen looks up. "Why?"

"The way you smell right now is going to attract a lot of attention."

"More than usual?" He's already getting used to being treated like a piece of meat—another sure sign that he's been here too long.

"Yeah. I mean... You're done with your heat, but you're still, ah... you know, receptive. To alphas. Because your, uh, vent is still open. They're going to know that, too. And now you're fertile, so women are going to be more attracted to you." Sam rubs the back of his neck. Stephen's noticed he does that when he's agitated. "You just smell really good, man. Pheromones, you know..." 

That sounds dangerous. "Uh... Should I even bother going to work?"

"Yeah. You'll be fine. Every omega I know works through their post-heat phase. I'm just telling you so you know what to expect. Just avoid getting trapped anywhere alone with any alphas. Stay in public spaces. You'll be fine." Sam grins at him. "And try not to punch anyone."

Stephen smiles back. "I'll try." He opens a drawer and finds a stick of deodorant—some brand specifically for omegas, according to the label. He pulls off the cap and smells it. It doesn't really smell like anything. Maybe his nose is still messed up because of his heat. He shrugs to himself and uses it anyway.

Sam is still standing behind him, just watching him. Stephen narrows his eyes at him. "You know a lot about biology," he says.

"Hey. I like to read, too." Sam shifts on his feet, looks away. "Actually... when I was younger... I wanted to be a doctor. A psychiatrist. Majored in biology as an undergrad. Pre-med. Things just... didn't work out that way."

He seems embarrassed talking about this. Stephen opens his mouth to ask why, but Sam cuts him off.

"You look better without shoes. You shouldn't wear them."

Stephen rolls his eyes. _That_ was an unsubtle subject change. "I'm wearing shoes. I don't give a shit if you don't like it."

Sam suddenly steps closer, crowding him up against the counter. His eyes are dark again—pupils blown wide. Stephen frowns at him in confusion. And then Sam is wrapping strong arms around him and leaning in to lick at his shoulder.

_What the hell...?_

"You're kidding right? We just got clean!"

"Sorry. Can't help myself. It turns me on when you get an attitude like that..." Sam mouths at a deep bruise on the side of his neck and Stephen growls a warning. "And I was thinking about this the whole way here. The way you smell..."

He tries to scowl at Sam in the mirror, but it turns into a sort of pained grimace. "I'm sore as hell." 

"I'll be gentle." Sam is already grinding against his ass. 

"I'm going to be late for clinic." Now he just sounds pathetic. Sam bites the side of his neck. Stephen's growl deteriorates into a groan.  _Fuck_. He's wet again in an instant, soaking through the seat of his pants.

Sam runs his hands down Stephen's sides, slips his fingers under the waistband and pushes his pants down over his hips. He's going to need a new pair now, anyway... "I'll make up... a good excuse for you. I'm an FBI agent."

Sam pushes him forward against the countertop, trying to tip him over. "One more time. Come on, man... Let me fuck you."

Stephen pushes back. He's still bigger than Sam, even if Sam is stronger and more determined. "You're going to wrinkle your suit," he points out.

Sam laughs at that. He grabs Stephen's neck and squeezes, turning his muscles weak and trembling.

Stephen moans as Sam bends him over at the waist, above the sink, all of his resistance crumbling. It still makes no sense that that works. "How are you...? What...? Why?" he manages to gasp.

"Submission reflex," Sam says, correctly interpreting his incoherent rambling. "Stop trying to figure everything out all the time."

Sam is true to his word—his fingers are gentle against Stephen's entrance, light and teasing. Stephen's body is still open and ready, wanting more. Sam slides two fingers up inside and into his vent slowly, pushing them deep until his knuckles are digging into Stephen's ass. He twists them a little on each stroke, a little deeper and a little harder each time, forcing him open. 

Sam is silent as he fingers him, except for his harsh breathing, an occasional grunt as he pushes his fingers in deep. Stephen leans against the cool tiles, keeps his eyes on Sam's face in the mirror. It feels good—his body still swollen and sensitive from hours of fucking. The slight burn just adds a sharper edge to his pleasure. He's dripping now—Sam's fingers making an obscene squelching sound as he works them into his ass over and over again, rocking his hips painfully against the hard edge of the counter.

His own breath is coming hard now, filling him with Sam's scent. He's getting closer, the muscles of his vent tightening around the fingers inside him, that familiar tingling growing stronger, rising with each stroke. His hands scrabble for purchase against the smooth countertop.

"Yeah," Sam whispers, leans up tight against his back. "Come on, baby. You're close, aren't you? Come on. That's it..."

Stephen gasps and grabs onto the edge of the counter for support. Each push of Sam's hand sends a hot thrill through him. Pressure building, that wonderful tension coiling like a spring inside him. Just waiting to be released in a flood of pleasure. He turns his head to the side so he can press his hot face against Sam's, breathe him in. "Oh, fuck..." he whispers. "Sam, ah... _Shit_."

" _God_ , you're wet... You smell so fucking good. I want you so bad..."

Stephen can only moan in response. Sam pushes in deep and starts rocking his hand, does some trick with his fingers—Stephen's not sure what. But his orgasm takes him by surprise, rushing up and forcing a quiet, " _oh_ ," from him as his muscles contract around Sam's fingers. Stephen drops his head against the counter and shudders, hips still working, trying to make the feeling last as long as he can.

Sam knows what he needs. He holds his hand steady, lets Stephen push against him until he's loose and relaxed. Kisses and licks at Stephen's shoulders as his breathing slows. Stephen winces when he pulls his fingers out. "Sorry," Sam mutters.

Stephen can hear the jingling of Sam's belt buckle, the slide of his zipper being lowered. Then Sam's hot length is pressing against him, smearing wetness across the back of his thigh.

"Spread your legs a little more," Sam murmurs. "You're too damn tall."

Stephen snorts weakly, but he does as Sam says, shuffling his feet apart a little. Sam slips a hand between his legs to cup his testicles. Stephen moans when he rolls them in his hand, massaging gently. They've felt hot and a little swollen for the last hour or so—it made the drive here rather uncomfortable. "Careful," he mumbles, "I'm... pretty sore there. I'm going to guess that's normal, too, right?"

Sam kisses him softly on the back of his neck. "Yeah," he says. "You've started making sperm, so..." Another kiss. "It's normal."

Stephen chuckles. _Of course it is..._

Sam gives him one more kiss. He locks eyes with Stephen in the mirror then lines up and slides into him. "That feel okay?" he whispers.

"Yeah," Stephen sighs. He's sore, but it feels good. He watches Sam's brow furrow, the way he bites his lip and grunts. His hands are gentle on Stephen's hips as he pumps, shallow at first then deeper. Sam meets his eyes again, smiles. He pulls out almost all the way and then slowly pushes back in. "God, you feel amazing..." Does it again, harder this time.

Stephen braces himself against the counter. 

Sam leans back and drops his chin to his chest. " _Damn_ ," he pants. "That's... _God_."

Stephen knows what he's looking at. The thought sends a thrill through him and his muscles clench involuntarily the next time Sam slides in. _Fuck_. Within seconds he's on the edge again. "S—Sam... I'm going to... _oh_..."

Sam slams into him and Stephen almost loses his grip on the counter. "Mine," he growls. "You're mine. _Say it_ ," he demands.

Stephen bites his lip, shakes his head once. Not _him_. He doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong to Sam.

Sam bites down hard on his shoulder and Stephen groans. His climax rolls through him slow and sweet, burning him up from the inside. He reaches back and grabs at Sam's head, digs his fingers into Sam's short hair, pulls him closer.

Sam gasps against the side of Stephen's neck. He jerks hard one more time and comes, pulsing hot and wet inside him. 

Sam inside him. Sam's arms around him. Stephen turns his head to the side and breathes in, filling his nose, his throat, his head with Sam—the sharp tang of his semen, bitter sweat on his skin, rich like smoke, and sweet like old wet leaves. He's drowning in it. Drowning in Sam.

"Mine," Sam whispers next to his ear. "You're mine."

Stephen closes his eyes.

"Yes," he breathes.

 

***

 

He _is_ late for clinic hours. But Sam keeps his word and no one seems to mind.

Stephen is surprised when Sam doesn't just drop him off. He has some business in the hospital, apparently—someone he's meeting here. Stephen's curious, but he doesn't ask.

Sam is unusually tense as they walk from the parking garage to the lobby, eyes shifting around, movements careful, controlled. He growls menacingly at an alpha security guard they pass in the hall. The man lowers his eyes and hurries by. Stephen chuckles. 

"What?" Sam snaps. "I didn't like the way he was looking at you."

Once they're in the hospital lobby, Sam seems reluctant to leave him. "One day. Two tops," he promises. "Call me if anything comes up. I put my number in your contacts. Oh, yeah. Here's your phone back." He reaches into his pocket, slaps the thing into Stephen's palm. He'd completely forgotten that Sam had confiscated it after he was 'arrested' for punching that asshole detective. So much has happened since then...

"Right. Thanks." Stephen hesitates. It feels wrong, almost painful, to leave Sam. "Two days," he repeats quietly, stepping away.

"Hey." Sam reaches out and abruptly grabs Stephen back, pulls him down for a fairly passionate kiss.

When they finally break apart, Stephen notices a couple people glancing at them curiously. No one he recognizes. His face is flushed again, heart racing. "I have to go," he whispers.

He forces himself to turn and walk away. He doesn't look back at Sam. The next two days are going to be hard enough.

 

***

 

This version of Metro-General is almost identical to the one he's familiar with. The Neurology Clinic is in the same place on the second floor. He even recognizes a couple of the nurses on staff from his own world. One of them—he thinks her name might be Kathy—grabs him and gives him a hug, almost knocking him off his feet. "So good to have you back!" she coos. "We were worried."

"I'm glad to be back," he says, smiling, surprised to find that it's actually true. Even if he doesn't belong here. Just the chance to be a doctor again.

He doesn't have a personal assistant here, but he does have his own office, one door down from Nic West's office. Luckily, the other man's door is shut when Stephen walks by. 

His office here is small, but nice. A little like his apartment, he thinks. There are a few art pieces on the wall—framed concert posters, mostly. He doesn't recognize the bands, but they look vintage. Books on shelves. More awards on the walls. He doesn't have any more time to poke around because Kathy suddenly peeks her head in to let him know his first patient is already waiting for him.

After that, it's easy to fall back into the familiar routine of clinic work. Seeing patients, evaluating radiographs and scans, and scheduling treatment plans and surgeries. 

Some of his patients are women, a few are omegas. Those visits seem routine. The omegas give him understanding looks. His heat, he realizes. They even _smell_ sympathetic. He's not exactly sure how that works... One of them—a younger man wearing those bizarre loose linen clothes, tattoos covering his neck, no shoes—tells him a story about how he'd needed stitches after his last heat to close up a particularly nasty bite. Stephen just nods as politely as he can and tries to steer the conversation back to the patient's pinched nerve.

A few patients are alphas. Kathy stays in the room with them for these appointments. Stephen wonders if that's standard or if it's because he's very obviously just finished his heat. Probably both. The smell of these alphas sets him on edge, makes his hair stand up. And his scent seems to affect them, too—he can sense tension coming from the alphas, the way they look at him warily, become red-faced and stammering when they first step into the room. He just keeps his distance and stays professional, which is easy in a clinical setting. And he manages to get through the appointments without any problems. But, still, he's grateful for Kathy's presence.

Most of his clinic patients here are suffering from spinal problems and chronic pain, hoping for a surgical solution—maybe it's their second or third try to find relief. He can sympathize now with the desperation they must feel, the frustration as they describe everything they've tried that hasn't worked. How far they would go to be able to walk again, to stop their pain. In his old life, he wouldn't have seen them at all—easy, boring cases he would have rejected before without a thought. But he suspects he doesn't have the luxury of picking and choosing his patients here.

Back when he was practicing, he was one of the top neurosurgeons in the world. But here he's not. Maybe achieving that isn't possible with his background and the stigma of his gender. He'd noticed after digging around in his office between patients that he's still a fellow here and not an attending. Although he seems to have all of the same responsibilities as an attending, plus more work—his schedule has him on call at least twice as often as any other staff physician. More than some of the residents, as far as he can tell.

Later, he's sitting in his office, trying to catch up on his paperwork, when a nurse he doesn't recognize—omega, a little overweight, his long hair is pulled back into a ponytail—comes in, carrying a wrapped sandwich. 

He sets it down meekly on the desk and shrugs. "Thought you could use this. I know I'm always starving after... you know."

Stephen  _is_ absolutely starving. He'd forgotten to eat again once he'd gotten busy. "Thank you." The staff here genuinely seem to like him. He knows he must be a sarcastic ass to some people—Nic West, for example—but maybe this version of him has made more of an effort to get along with the people he works with. And maybe that's the key to making his way in this world.

Before he can finish the sandwich, he gets called to the ER for an emergency consult—pedestrian versus car, major trauma—and spends the next two hours in surgery trying to find and fix a ruptured blood vessel in the poor kid's brain. It doesn't matter in the end—the patient bleeds out from a ruptured spleen while he's still closing up.

He stands at the sink for a while after scrubbing out, just letting the water run, trying to decide if the kid would have made it. Doubtful. Still... losing a patient has never been acceptable, even if it was out of his hands. If the trauma surgeon had only been faster... He shakes his head. Useless to worry about it.

In another world, though... Maybe he's alive.

The scent of an alpha fills his nose before he notices the man standing behind him in the mirror. Another doctor, obviously. Not someone Stephen knows. Balding, with a neatly-trimmed beard and a gut. His eyes shift away nervously when he notices Stephen's watching.

Stephen focuses on rinsing his hands, keeping the other man in his peripheral vision. Sam had warned him that alphas might try shit. Fortunately, the man's smell is not appealing at all. Stephen finds it incredibly irritating, actually. He doesn't want this guy to get any closer right now.

As if he can sense this, the man clears his throat and backs off a little, tries to lean casually against the next sink. "So..." he starts. "We haven't met yet. I'm John Allen, with Andrology." His scent suddenly shifts, too, becomes more soothing.

Oh, perfect. "Stephen Strange." He's decided not to be rude. Or to try, at least—his alternate self still has to work here after he's gone. Also, he can probably get away with punching one alpha in a week, but two might be pushing it.

"I know. Sorry. I—I actually came down here to find you—your office said you were in surgery. And I noticed your hands, and..." The guy seems awfully flustered for someone just dealing with a colleague in a work setting. All of the alphas he's encountered today are treating him differently. Stephen wonders if it's because of the way he smells right now. Like sex. Like Sam.

John clears his throat loudly again and continues, "So, I could actually use a consult. Lara mentioned you're her go-to guy for weird brain stuff and, well... I've got this case. Seventeen-year-old omega, admitted last night with altered mental status, restlessness, tremors, self-harming. Sudden onset. Mom's going nuts. Imaging showed nothing in the brain, so the ED shunted him up to us. We assumed it was some acute endocrine problem—most likely Galdrain's syndrome—but we can't find anything in the blood work to indicate that. Then, a few hours later, the kid had a grand mal seizure. So we did some more imaging, but radiology still can't find anything. Dr. West was on call last night. He took a look and, ah, decided it's not a neuro problem. The kid had another seizure this morning. And... I'm just at a loss." 

This guy actually seems sincere. Stephen finishes drying his hands and turns around. "I can take a look." 

He follows John up to critical care. The other doctor stops near the main desk, down the hall from the patient rooms. Stephen looks at him curiously.

"Look," he starts, "this kid, Brian, he's... Well, he's a little abrasive. Teenagers, you know? I just wanted to warn you."

"I think I can handle it. Thanks."

The kid is sitting up in bed, looking alert. He's too thin and there are dark circles under his eyes. He has a small tattoo on his chest, bright blue against his pale skin—a wolf, maybe a fox. Stephen wonders what that one means.

Brian looks surprised for a moment when he catches sight of Stephen's hands, but he quickly rearranges his face into a sneer. "Found an omega doctor for me, huh? Hope he's smarter than the rest of you geniuses." 

John sighs. "Brian, this is Dr. Strange. He's a neurologist. I asked him to help me out with your case."

Brian flips dark hair out of his eyes. "Dr. Strange, huh? Sounds like a comic book villain."

"Yes, my name is hilarious." Stephen sits at mobile kiosk and starts flipping through the scans of the kid's brain. _Nothing_. Although, he wouldn't have been surprised if there had been something—he doesn't trust West's judgement. "Nothing on the scans," he says to John.

John nods, but he's obviously disappointed. Probably hoping he could kick his mystery case back to neurology. 

There's an odd smell in the room. Not something that would come from a person, more like a chemical. But not one found in the hospital. It's oddly familiar. Stephen knows he's been around this smell a lot lately. Maybe at Kamar-Taj? He steps closer to the bed. Brian looks up at him apprehensively. The scent is definitely coming from the kid. This has to be related...

"You smell funny."

Brian's whole body tenses. "And you smell like you just got fucked," he snarls.

"Hey, now—" John starts.

"It's okay." Stephen smirks. His comment about the smell must have touched a nerve. And that's the last clue he needs.

He knows what that smell is now. Nothing else it could be. His smirk turns into a satisfied grin. "Let's see... Tremors, restlessness, scratching your own skin off"—he tips his head at Brian's arms and the kid clutches the blanket tighter around himself—"seizures, and you've probably also damaged your kidneys. Dr. Allen here will have to do some tests to check for renal failure."

" _I've_ damaged my kidneys?" Brian might be acting incredulous, but the look in his eyes says he knows he's been caught.

"Yes. _You_ did it. By drinking wormwood oil."

John huffs behind him in disbelief. "Wormwood oil? What...?"

Stephen keeps his eyes on Brian. "Yes. It's a plant extract used to flavor certain alcoholic drinks like bitters and absinthe." He hopes they have those here. "There's a compound in it—thujone—that's toxic if ingested in large enough quantities. Causes tremors, restlessness, seizures, and kidney damage. Among other things. And it has a very distinctive smell." He pauses, considering the kid in front of him. "I've tried pure wormwood oil before. It tastes like shit." _That_ had been an unfortunate potion-making accident. Not that he's going to explain how it happened to them... "Why the hell would you drink it?"

Brian shrugs and looks away guiltily. Then his shoulders slump in defeat. "My, uh... my boyfriend read about it on the internet. He said it could make my heat come sooner. You know, so we could..." He glances over at John. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it would cause all this. I didn't want to say anything 'cause my mom would totally freak if she found out. I just thought... if I stopped taking it, all of this crap would go away." He gestures down at his body.

"You're in luck, then," Stephen says. "All of your symptoms _will_ go away. Except the kidney damage. That's permanent." He glances back at John, who's got his phone out now, probably googling 'wormwood'. When he looks back at Brian, the kid's eyes have gone wide. Stephen feels sorry for him, even if he is a little asshole. He was undoubtedly the same at that age. "I don't think you've done any severe damage," he adds. "You'll be fine."

"Wormwood oil," John murmurs. "It fits." He sounds surprised. 

Brian still looks scared. "Please, don't tell my mom. She'll never let me see Dylan again—she already hates him. She just... doesn't understand. I love him. Come on, man. Isn't there, like, doctor-patient privilege or something?"

John doesn't seem sympathetic. "Sorry, Brian. You're a minor and an omega. I'm afraid that, by law, I have to tell your mom so she can make medical decisions for you."

Brian flings himself over onto his side, mumbles, "Fuck off." He smells like despair now, mingling with the bitter scent of wormwood.

Stephen decides to step out of the room, wait for John in the hall. Sucks for the kid, but it's not his problem.

John joins him after a moment. "Thanks. I, uh, don't think I could have solved that one on my own." He seems embarrassed. "I should probably keep up with these trends, you know? Research the latest fads these young people are into."

Stephen shrugs. "No problem." Actually... He's thinking now that he shouldn't have said anything. Kept the kid's secret. The symptoms would just fade as he got the toxin out of his system and he would have been discharged after a day or so. Kid was smart enough to put two and two together. Stephen doubts he'd be stupid enough to try drinking that shit again. 

He realizes belatedly that John is staring at his neck.

"Hey, ah... If you want to come up to Andrology, I can take care of those mating bites for you. Some of them are pretty deep."

Stephen tugs at the collar of his shirt self-consciously. "I'm good. But, thanks for the offer." He might have Christine take a look when he gets a spare minute, but he definitely doesn't want this guy anywhere near his neck right now.

"Okay," John says mildly. He offers his hand. "Thanks again, Stephen. It was nice to meet you."

Stephen takes his hand, shakes it. Though it's surprisingly hard to touch an alpha. Any alpha who isn't Sam. "No problem," he says.

 

***

 

His phone rings on the way back down to his office. It's Sam.

Stephen stops in the hall next to a supply closet to answer it, tries to ignore the way his heart beats faster, the thrill that runs through him. Obviously, his hormones are still fucked up. "Yeah?"

"Hey, it's me." Sam pauses for a long time. When he speaks again, his voice is soft. "How are you doing?"

Stephen has to bite back the emotion that wells up inside him—the pathetic urge to beg Sam to come back. He clears his throat, instead. "I'm fine. What's going on with the case? Did you get anything?"

A pause. "Yeah." Stephen can hear disappointment in Sam's voice. It hurts. _Not his world_ , he reminds himself. _Not his Sam_. "Mr. Fulton is not the type of alpha who remembers an omega's name, but he did remember the guy's profession... Your dumb thing about the car was right. Our suspect is a cab driver."

"It wasn't dumb," Stephen says absently, mind racing.

 _Of course!_ A link to Marianne Carlson—someone the killer must have met through his work. That's why she was so different from the other victims. He must have taken a risk with her. But why? Because she and her double were so similar? It must have been worth it—to establish that connection between their worlds.

But there must be thousands of cab drivers, just in New York City, alone. He has no idea how many there might be in the state. There are too many possibilities, too much he doesn't know about this world... "That helps us, right? How does that help us?"

Sam chuckles. "Yeah, it helps. That whole industry is tightly regulated. Special licenses, background checks, the works... And there aren't that many omega cab drivers. We've got a physical description, too. We'll get him." Another pause. "I'm going to stay here tonight. I've gotta coordinate the search for this guy with the rest of my team. But I'll be back tomorrow. And... I'll need your help."

 _Fuck_. Stephen hates the trepidation he hears in Sam's voice. "Look, Sam. I..." He closes his eyes, digs his fingers into the bridge of his nose. _Not his world, not his Sam._ It's too easy to forget that. "I—I miss you."

Sam is silent for a long time, then, "I miss you, too, man. I'll be back up there soon. Tomorrow. I'll call you when I get there."

"Yeah..."

Stephen hangs up and then just leans against the wall with his eyes closed, wonders how much more damage he can do to both of his lives while he's here. 

 

***

 

His next patient in the ER, a drunk alpha, flirts with him relentlessly.

The guy apparently decided to get a head-start on the weekend, got punched—big surprise—and hit his head on a wall on the way down. Probably just a mild concussion. Stephen's not even sure why he was called in on this case. The guy doesn't need brain surgery.

"Hey, gorgeous. Come'ere." He tries to yank Stephen forward and kiss him while he's checking his pupil response. 

He might need to be castrated, though...

Stephen turns around to find an ophthalmoscope and the drunk slaps his ass.

The bored omega nurse fixing the IV lines rolls his eyes behind the patient's back. "Restraints?" he asks.

Stephen shakes his head. "It's fine."

He's annoyed, but he's used to dealing with combative and altered patients. Just never one who was trying to get into his pants before. It's not something he's used to—being the subject of this type of attention. Sam _had_ warned him. And Stephen supposes he should have been prepared for this, given how fucked up everything else is here, too. Still, it's incredibly irritating.

"Hey, hot doctor," the alpha slurs. "Gimme your number. I'm gonna call you later so we can play 'doctor' together."

The nurse snorts behind his hand. Stephen glares at him.

Christine saves him when she peeks her head around the curtain. "Hey." She glances around the room, grins at him. "Got a minute? I need a second opinion on an x-ray."

"Yeah. Yes." Anything to get away from this dick. Stephen finishes up his remarks in the patient's file, smirks at the nurse. "He's all yours."

Christine's patient is an elderly woman who slipped on her front stairs. A neighbor brought her to the ER. She might have bumped her back on the way down. She looks stable now—sleeping peacefully with morphine on tap and her sprained ankle elevated.

Stephen looks over the patient's perfect scans and quirks an eyebrow at Christine. "Even West could have handled this one."

She tries to look scandalized but ends up smiling. "Okay. So I just wanted to see you. Make sure you were okay."

He smiles back. "I'm okay."  

"Are you on call tonight?"

"Yeah."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course you are. Come home with me, then. I'm closer if you need to come in. And I missed you. You can tell me all about your exciting adventures with the FBI." She gives him a knowing smile and he can feel a blush creeping up his cheeks.

Going home with Christine could be dangerous. She obviously knows him well. They're friends here. And probably more, if the memories from his other self are accurate. If anyone's going to notice he's not acting right, Christine will.

On the other hand, he really doesn't want to be alone tonight.

"Yeah. Okay." It's a risk, but he suspects he'll be safe if he just acts like himself. Within reason. "When do you get off?"

"I'm off already, but I have to follow up with a few things. I'll be done in half an hour or so."

He nods. Typical Christine—she's always made extra time for her patients. Stephen knows it will be closer to two hours. His shift ends in an hour, but he doesn't mind waiting. He's got nowhere else to go. "I'll see you in five hours then," he says.

Christine whacks him on the arm. "Shut up. Also, you smell hungry. Sara left some doughnuts in the break room. They're probably stale by now, but..."

His stomach growls loudly at the word 'doughnut'. _Gods_ , he's hungry! "Yeah. I'll... go eat something. Come find me when you're ready." He has to resist the urge to ask what 'hungry' smells like.

"Okay. I'll see you soon." She smiles at him again. "I'm glad you're back."

 

***

 

The doughnuts _are_ stale, but Stephen doesn't care. He steals the last three and sits near the entrance to the emergency department, watching patients and their families come and go while he eats.

Lots of single people. Women with children and omegas with children. Women and omegas, together. With children and without. But then an alpha comes in, helping a barefoot omega with an ice pack taped to his ankle. He gives the omega a soft kiss on the forehead before heading to the front desk to talk to the triage nurse. And, later, a family of three adults herds a small group of kids into the waiting room. The alpha gently cradles a sick little girl, while the omega tries to entertain the rest of the kids with a magazine and the woman argues with a nurse about their insurance coverage.

So alphas _do_ sometimes have longer relationships here. Families, even. Stephen had wondered. He finishes the last doughnut and wanders back into the emergency department to wait for Christine. He sits at the nurses' station for a while, catching up on his paperwork, letting the busy ER swirl around him, doctors and nurses rushing past. At least that routine is the same in every world.

When he's too tired to focus on the words anymore, he heads to the break room for some coffee. The empty doughnut box is still sitting on the counter. He looks at it longingly. The coffee left in the pot is old and crappy, but it will have to be enough for now. Someone comes in while he's searching for sugar in the cupboards. Someone who smells familiar.

"I want to talk to you."

Nic West. _Shit_. Stephen glances back at him warily. "What about?"

West sniffs the air. His eyes slide over Stephen's body, widen in surprise, and linger on the back of his neck. "Not here. Come up to my office."

Hearing West order him around makes Stephen bristle, and there's no way he's going anywhere with this asshole. He has to suppress the growl that begins building in his chest. It's surprisingly difficult.

Stephen's not sure how, but he can tell right away that there's no relationship between them. West's scent, probably. It was something he'd been worried about—that he'd fucked everything up on his last visit here. Trapped his other self into some kind of dependency on his colleague by fucking him. But that doesn't seem to be the case.

He turns around so he can look the other man in the eye. "If you want to talk, we can talk here."

West hesitates for a moment, uncertainty and frustration warring in his features. "Fine." He shuts the door and stands against it. 

Stephen just waits for him to say something.

West shifts from foot to foot. He smells angry, but also nervous and aroused. Not a good combination. "I hear Allen brought you in for a consult on one of my patients," he finally says.

Is that what this is about? "Yeah. The omega kid." Stephen shrugs. "Allen just wanted a second look. And he wasn't really your patient."

"You know what I mean." West shakes his head. The angry smell intensifies. "I'm tired of you trying to—to upstage me all the time. You're always showing off. Trying to make me look like an idiot in front of the people I work with. I want you to stay away from my patients." West has started pacing by the door, eyes flashing in anger. "I'll go to Bennet if I have to. I don't want to, but..." Guilt replaces the anger for a moment. "But you need to learn your place here," he finishes quietly.

Stephen clenches his jaw. He wants to lash out. Rub West's inadequacy in his face. Tell him what a shitty doctor he is. In his own world, in the past, he wouldn't have thought twice about it. And he would have enjoyed it, too.

But he can't do that here. West could ruin him, he realizes. Everything he has—his career, his livelihood—is in the other man's hands right now. He has no power here. It's utterly terrifying. To be at the mercy of this bastard...

Stephen forces himself to calm down, unclench his jaw. The instincts are all here, inside his head. He shifts his eyes away from West's and down to the floor. He slumps a little so he doesn't look so tall. He can fake being a good, submissive omega. "I'm sorry," he says. "It won't happen again."

He can feel West responding immediately, his scent shifting from anger to something soothing. The smell of his arousal is still hanging heavy in the air, intoxicating. He takes a few steps closer. Stephen lets him get closer despite all of his instincts telling him to get away.

"I'm sorry. I... wouldn't go to Bennet. You know I wouldn't. I'm sorry I said that." He runs a shaky hand over his mouth, looks back at the door nervously, then back at Stephen. "I want you. _Christ_ , I want you so much. Come up to my office."

Stephen opens his mouth to say something, but West cuts him off. "I know you've already been with someone. I can smell him all over you. But... you let me have you once. Come on, Strange."

West smells good. Too good. Stephen doesn't want him to get any closer. He backs up a little when West takes another step. He has to clear his throat before he can speak. "I'm working right now."

The bitter scent of West's anger is suddenly back, mingling with his arousal, turning it into something darker. "I'm not asking," West says quietly, like he's afraid of his own words.

Stephen freezes. _Fuck_.

West's smell is abruptly soothing again, controlling. "I'm sorry," he says. He almost sounds like he means it. "I just... I want you. And the way you smell... I know you want it, too. Come on, Strange..." He steps close enough to put his hand on Stephen's shoulder, dangerously near his neck, and Stephen flinches. West's thumb rubs back and forth—the smallest violation, promising more. The scent of his arousal is overwhelming. "Just come up to my office. I don't want to go to Bennet. You know I don't..."

The threat just hangs in the air between them.

Stephen's throat has gone dry and his heart is pounding. He knows what's at stake here. Not for him, but for his other self. His job, everything he's worked so hard to achieve. Despite the odds... He can't let that happen. "Don't," he rasps. "Don't do this." He swallows hard. He hates to beg this asshole for anything... "Nic, please..."

West's face goes ashen and he abruptly drops his hand. "I'm sorry. _God_ , I'm sorry. I don't know what the hell I'm thinking," he mutters. He backs away, shaking his head, and Stephen lets out the breath he's been holding. " _Fuck_. I'm sorry. It's just... the way you smell right now... You know I wouldn't do that, right?" 

Stephen doesn't know any such thing. He watches the other man warily as he paces around.

"I just... I want you. The next time you..." He gestures at Stephen's body. "That's what I want. That's all I was trying to say. I wouldn't... I would never force you. That's not the kind of person I am. I—"

A nurse chooses that moment to push the door open—an older woman, her gray-streaked dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail. She freezes and sniffs the air, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. "You boys doing okay in here?"

West keeps his eyes on Stephen. "Yes, we're fine," he says, voice tight.

The nurse looks doubtful. She turns to Stephen. "You sure you're okay, Doc?"

West is still staring at him, face drawn tight. Stephen finally looks away. "I'm fine."

"Okay, then..." She walks slowly over to the cabinet, starts very deliberately making herself a cup of coffee. West makes a frustrated sound and stalks out the door.

Stephen sags against the counter, closes his eyes. "Thanks," he breathes.

"No problem, hon. You watch yourself, okay?"

Stephen nods. He pours his cup of coffee down the sink. He doesn't want it anymore.

 

***

 

Christine sidles up to him around seven, laden with bags, coat on. She looks tired. "I'm finally done. For real this time. Sorry for making you wait."

He'd ended up working in the relative safety of the Emergency Department, sitting at the nurses' station, rather than risk going back up to his office. The Neurology Clinic is closed and empty. He doesn't want to run into West up there.

"No problem." He closes the patient file he was working on, logs off the computer.

"Do you have everything?"

"Uh..." His coat is still in his office, but he really doesn't need it on such a warm spring night. "Yeah. I'm ready to go."

"Okay. I just need to pick up Emily—I dropped her off in the nursery this morning."

 _Emily_. Christine must have a kid in this world, he realizes. He doesn't know why that's surprising. His Christine had always put her career first, though he knew a part of her always struggled with that decision. But everything he's seen here suggests she wouldn't have to make that kind of choice. Could have both if she wanted.

Stephen follows her down the hall to the elevator, and to the first floor. 

Stephen remembers they'd removed the employee daycare center at his version of Metro General a few years ago to make space for a new Subway franchise. Here, though, the center is huge. Christine swipes her employee ID card on the electronic lock and lets them in. She waves to a few people they meet in the hall, leads him down past offices and a few rooms with large windows, babies or toddlers playing inside. Christine stops in front of one of the infant rooms, slips paper booties from a little box on her feet, says, "I'll be right back."

Stephen waits in the hall, stares at a few kid drawings across from the door. Do kids really think the sun looks like that? 

Christine finally comes out, carrying a baby wearing a pink outfit with little clouds on it. "Hold her for a sec. I've gotta talk to Andrew about some scheduling things..." She shoves the baby into his arms.

"Uh, yeah... Sure." He's been getting a lot of practice holding babies lately. Stephen jostles the little girl around until she's secure. They both watch as Christine disappears down the hall into a little office.

Stephen looks at the baby.  _Emily,_ he reminds himself. She's maybe nine months old, as far as he can tell. He doesn't know a lot about babies, hasn't really paid that much attention before. Deep blue eyes. Almost no hair, just a few soft light brown strands. He tries to decide if she looks like Christine. Concludes she just looks like a baby. She also doesn't seem at all upset that her mom just left. She must know him well, then.

Emily makes a little snuffling sound and stuffs her hand in her mouth, tucks her head against his chest.

Stephen closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. He knows her scent well. She smells so comforting and familiar. A little like Christine. A little like a baby—like diapers and old sour milk. But she also reminds him of the way the sheets on his bed smell in the morning. His clothes after he's worn them. She smells like _him_. And then he knows...

The revelation is so startling that it punches the breath out of him. He's holding his daughter. _His_. He has a kid here.

"She missed you, you know."

He hadn't noticed Christine come up beside him. "Uh... what?"

"She missed you. While you were gone. You keep telling me that she's too little to care about people yet, but I can tell." She smiles at the baby, brushes a lock of wispy hair off of her forehead. "Come on. I'm ready to go."

He follows Christine down the hall in a daze, carrying their baby.

 

***

 

Christine's apartment is much nicer than his. And at least four times bigger. The floor to ceiling windows in the open living room actually have a nice view of the street below. His apartment has a view of the brick wall across the alley. She must earn a lot more than he does, he decides.

Christine drops her bags on a long table just inside the door, calls, "Sebastian! I'm back."

A young man peeks his head around the corner at the end of the hall and smiles. "Hey, Doc. Hey, Stephen. I'm just finishing dinner." He comes out, wiping his hands on a dish towel tucked into his belt. "Spaghetti with marinara."

"Didn't we have that two nights ago," Christine says teasingly. 

"Yeah, but it's quick. And I got a hot date tonight." He's an omega, early twenties, maybe Puerto Rican, Stephen thinks, wearing tight-fitting black clothes—those weird, short pants—and his close-cropped hair is styled into little spikes. He does look like he's ready to go out. No shoes, though.

"Lita again?" Christine asks. She hangs up her coat and wanders down the hall. Sebastian follows her.

"She's the girl of my dreams, Doc. She's smart, she's funny, she's gonna be famous someday. She's just... amazing." He sighs dramatically.

Christine chuckles. 

Sebastian must be the nanny, Stephen deduces. The apartment smells like he lives here, along with Christine and the baby. Stephen's own smell is strong here, too, so he must stay here a lot.

Stephen sets the car seat down in the living room and starts unstrapping Emily. He's never actually done this before, but his hands seem to know what to do. He looks around, trying to take in as much as he can without seeming to. All of the furniture looks expensive, but lived-in and comfortable. A lot of books, but they're all neatly confined to two large shelves. Baby toys in a wicker basket on the floor. He can see some of the same knick knacks that his Christine also likes to collect on the higher shelves—little pieces of blown glass, decorated ceramic bowls, souvenirs from her trips. He'd always hated those, back when they'd been sleeping together, just on principle. 

He lifts the baby out and carries her down the hall to the kitchen.

It's big and modern, with appliances and cookbooks that look like they actually get some use. Stephen leans against the counter and bounces the baby a little. She seems happy just to be held.

Sebastian is busy adding pasta to a big pot of boiling water. Christine has her head stuck in the fridge. She pulls out a beer. "Want one?"

"Sure."

She opens it for him and hands it over. Emily immediately reaches for the bottle. He takes a sip then lets the baby slide her little fingers over the glass. She keeps trying to pull it closer so she can fit her mouth over the top. Stephen chuckles. "Yeah. Wait a few years, then you can have this."

Christine smirks at him. "Just a few, huh?"

Sebastian finishes stirring the pasta and leans in to address the baby. "Hey, Em." He gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, then straightens up and smirks at Stephen. "Hey, Stephen. You smell like you had fun last night."

Everyone seems to want to talk about this... "I did," he says after a moment, surprised to find that it's actually true.

"Hope he was a gentleman this time. Not like that last fucker..."

"Language," Christine chides.

Sebastian laughs. "She doesn't understand me. Do you, Em? Do you?" He makes a silly face at the baby and she smiles and tucks her head into Stephen's shoulder.

"When's your date?" Christine asks. 

"It's, uh... _Oh, shit!_ I'm late. I gotta go."

"Language," Christine says again, exasperated. She turns to Stephen. "This doesn't bother you?"

He shrugs, takes another sip of beer. "She's a baby. She doesn't care."

Christine groans.

Sebastian jabs a finger at her in triumph. "Exactly my point, Doc. _Exactly_. So... the pasta will be done when the timer goes off. Just remember to stir it this time or the noodles will stick together. The sauce is ready. There's salad in the fridge. I don't have classes tomorrow, so I'll be around. And I'll be back late tonight. Super late, if things go well. Don't wait up." He grins and winks at Christine.

She waves him off. "Yeah, yeah. Go have fun. See you tomorrow."

"You too, Doc. Bye, baby. Bye, Stephen." And then he's sweeping out of the kitchen. Stephen can hear the door slam from down the hall.

Christine starts stirring the noodles. "You hungry?"

He pulls the beer bottle out of Emily's grasp. "Starving." 

 

***

 

Stephen ends up having three helpings of pasta before he finally feels like he might not starve to death.

Between bites, he gives Christine an abridged version of his adventures with Sam, leaving out some of the more bizarre aspects, of course. He uses Sam's suggested edits, explains how he'd seen the killer in a vision and left the city to go stop him, met Sam at the crime scene. It's almost the truth.

"Powers, huh?" Christine shakes her head, smiles at him. "I had no idea you were so talented."

He's sitting next to Emily in her highchair. She's spent the dinner playing with pasta that Christine has cut up into microscopic pieces—not actually eating anything. Any food that accidentally goes in her mouth is immediately ejected. Most of it is now on the floor under the table.

"I talked to Sam," Christine says. "When he dropped you off."

Was Christine who Sam was meeting, then? That's interesting. Also... Not Agent Wilson. _Sam_. Stephen leans down to get Emily's squeaky giraffe, puts it back in front of her. "You did?"

Emily slams her hand down on the high chair tray, launching the toy back onto the floor. Stephen picks it up again and puts it back. She grins at him and sweeps it off. He scowls at her. _Babies_.

"I did," Christine says. She pokes at her salad with a fork. "We texted back and forth a bunch. While you were gone." She reaches over to wipe some bits of pasta off Emily's cheek. "I like him. I mean... At first, I didn't." She takes another bite of salad, chews for a moment. "I didn't like that he put a hold on you. I thought he was a jerk."

"That's because he is a jerk."

Christine laughs. "I can see why you like him. You two deserve each other." Christine's smile fades. She stabs at her salad again, suddenly serious. "I assume you're going back out there. With Sam. To try to catch this guy. That's what Sam said, anyway."

"Yeah. We have to. If we have a chance to stop him..." He looks at Emily for a moment, then back up at Christine. "I have to take it."

"I know. Just... Be careful, will you?"

 

***

 

After dinner, he lies on the floor in the living room and lets the baby crawl over him while Christine has a shower.

The baby. _Emily_ , he thinks. _His baby_.

She's pretty coordinated for a kid her age—going back and forth across his chest and stomach, only face-planting a couple of times. It doesn't seem to bother her. Eventually, she crawls on top of him and looms over his face, smiling down at him, a long thread of drool dangling from her mouth. Before she can slime him, Stephen picks her up and settles her on his chest, wraps his arms around her. Emily struggles for a moment and then settles down, shoves her hand back in her mouth, working her gums on it.

A child. He has a child here.

It's not something he's really thought about before. In his real life, back when he was a neurosurgeon, it was never a consideration, beyond the occasional worry after a wild night.

But, here...

He leans up a little so his nose is close to her head, inhales deeply. Her smell wakes the feelings of his other self, exciting neurons in his limbic system the way that no other senses can. He lets it all wash over him. 

 _Love_. Love so strong it feels almost like pain. He hasn't felt anything like it since his sister... Since she... He swallows and shakes his head. And fear. Fear that takes his breath away. Fear that only those who have something so precious to lose can feel.

And remembers... _in the delivery room, holding her in his arms for the first time, so wet and wriggling and new. How helpless he'd felt, knowing he'd do anything for her_.

Stephen drops his head back down, blinks a few times up at the cool white of the ceiling. She's not his. Not really. This isn't his world.

Christine comes out of the bathroom, wearing a robe, her hair tucked up in a wet bun. She sweeps Emily into her arms when Stephen holds her up. The baby rubs her face back and forth across Christine's chest, whining. "I'm going to go feed her and put her down. Shouldn't take too long—she's pretty tired."

"Okay."

"Are you just going to sleep on the floor?"

He's exhausted. And this rug is actually pretty comfortable. "Maybe."

Christine chuckles. "Right. See you soon."

He grunts and closes his eyes.

Seconds later, Christine is back, poking him with her foot. "Hey, Stephen. Come to bed, okay?"

Must not be seconds later... He blinks up at her and yawns. "Yeah. Sorry. I fell asleep."

Christine pulls him up to his feet. "No problem. I'm guessing you didn't get too much sleep last night." 

Another rush of heat to his cheeks—just remembering everything he'd done with Sam. "No, I was... busy."

Christine laughs. "Speaking of which... Let me take a look at those bite wounds. I don't want them to get infected." She herds him down the hall to the bathroom.

Like the rest of the place, it's big. A walk-in shower in one corner and a soaking tub in the other.

Christine grabs some gauze pads out of a cabinet, along with a bottle of antiseptic and some kind of ointment. She tugs at his shirt. "Can you take this off?"

Stephen pulls it off and Christine makes a little sound in the back of her throat.

"What?"

"You weren't kidding. You _were_ busy last night." He can feel her fingers lightly tracing the edges of the wounds. They still don't hurt, which is weird. After a moment, she says, "I don't think you need stitches for any of these. So that's good." 

He watches in the mirror as Christine cleans a few of the bites with the antiseptic—that actually does sting a bit—then covers the wounds with the ointment. 

"All done."

There are two toothbrushes sitting in the holder. Christine picks one up and starts brushing her teeth. Stephen picks up the other one. It's easy to let his nose guide him. This is his toothbrush—he's pretty sure. Christine doesn't say anything, so he brushes his teeth.

Christine's bedroom is attached to the bathroom. He follows her in. It's comfortable like the rest of her apartment. A queen-sized bed takes up most of the space, but there's a crib in the corner with a little mobile of blue birds and clouds hanging above it. Emily is sleeping inside—on her back, her little fist tucked against her mouth.

His side of the bed is obvious, even if he ignores the familiar smell. A haphazard pile of books and medical journals are taking up space on one of the bedside tables. He picks up the one on the top—Journal of Neurology. There's an article marked with a little sticky note. He flips to that page: _Regeneration of glial cells in RFo knockout mice via mitochondrial transfer._ That sounds like something he'd be interested in.

"You should put some of those away. They're starting to pile up again."

"I'm still reading them, though." It's what he'd say if this was his life. It's what he's said in the past, when he was living with Christine. So easy to slip back into that familiar back and forth between them.

Stephen glances over, but Christine is shrugging out of her robe, nothing on underneath. He turns around quickly and sits on his side of the bed, sets his phone on the bedside table. He shouldn't have come here, probably. Should have given more thought to the fact that they're still lovers here, should have considered how he'd be expected to act. And then there's the way Christine smells... Too familiar, too tempting.

The life he has with her here isn't his. Coming home with her was a mistake.

The other side of the bed dips. "Are you going to wear pants to bed?"

Stephen looks over his shoulder. Christine's wearing a t-shirt now—too big for her, it looks like one of his. "Uh... no." He pushes his scrubs off and climbs into bed, pulls the blankets up to his head. They smell like home.

Christine switches off the bedside lamp and slides under the covers. "Stephen?"

"Yeah?" He rolls over to face her. She's right there. _Don't_ , he tells himself. _Don't do this_.

But Christine wraps her arms around him and draws him into a kiss. She smells incredible—warm, sweet, rich, familiar, musky. He groans when she tilts her head and deepens the kiss, mouth opening under his. Stephen can feel his body responding—cock growing hard, but also wetness between his thighs—and he fights to control himself. Fights to stay in his own head.

Her smell, her hands on his body...

_They've just gotten back from some boring award ceremony, something honoring one of Christine's friends. Stephen can't remember her name, what she did that was so amazing. They've both had too much to drink. They stumble into Christine's bedroom and fall onto the bed._

_Christine kicks her shoes off, giggling when one flies across the room and lands on the bookshelf. "Oops."_

_"Good shot," he says._

_Christine crooks a finger at him. "Come here."_

_He leans over her, slides down her body, mouthing as he goes. Christine giggles again when he bites at her knee. He rucks her party dress up to her hips, slides her panties—black silk, lace, already wet—slowly down her legs, flings them somewhere. He looks up at her._

_"Yes," she says._

_She smells incredible right here. He licks her gently at first, opening her up, pushing his tongue inside slowly. Christine grabs at his hair when he sucks on her clit. One finger, then two fingers. He knows what she likes, what will get her off fast. But he teases her first, wants to make this last. The way she tastes is driving him crazy._

_"Stephen... oh! Please..." She's moaning and breathless. He pumps his fingers faster, and she comes hard, pulling his hair, squeezing his head between her thighs._

It's not his memory. It could be, but it's not...

 _Fuck_. They can't do this. He's not who she thinks he is.

Christine is the one who pulls away first. She rests her forehead against his, breathing hard. "You smell so good right now. But I can tell you're exhausted. And you're still on call. So... I'm going to be the responsible one and let you sleep." She laughs softly. "Even if it kills me."

"Yeah," Stephen murmurs. He gives her one more kiss and rolls onto his back, concentrates on slowing his breathing down. Relief and frustration warring inside him. He _is_ tired. Tired and confused.

Christine drapes an arm over his chest. "You smell like Sam," she says. "He told me you spent your heat with him."

Stephen glances over at her, curious. "Uh, yeah. I—I did."

"What do you think of him?"

Stephen wonders where this conversation could be going. No way he can predict, given the incomplete information he has about this world. Honesty is probably the safest policy. Has always been really, with Christine. "I like him. He can be an ass, but he's honest and... And he's really committed to doing the right thing. Even if it's hard." All true. He does like Sam. Maybe too much. He's been trying not to think about it, failing. He doesn't belong here, and he can't stay. Even if there are things worth staying for. "Why are you asking about him?"

"I just... I was just thinking that I might... That I might like to have another baby someday. You know... before I get too old." She shrugs, smiles. "And I'd want it to be with you, of course, but also..." She reaches up, runs her hand through his hair. "But also... maybe with Sam."

Stephen is suddenly wide awake again. He can tell Christine's not done talking, so he stays quiet.

"Anyway... that's what we talked about today. Among other things. Sam thought that was something he might want. If you wanted to... have a baby with him."

Have a baby with Sam? "Uh..." Stephen doesn't really know how to respond. Why wouldn't Sam just say he wasn't interested? Knowing what he does about his situation? It doesn't make sense...

Christine knows he's hesitating. "You don't have to make a decision now. I know it's complicated, for a lot of reasons. And because... because Sam is black, that could make things hard with the way the laws are changing right now... Who knows what's going to happen? And... I think I'd like to get to know Sam better before we do anything. But I like him." She pauses. "He's smart and he's funny. I think he'd make a great dad. And he really cares about you. I can tell."

"Just think about it," she says.

 

***

 

Stephen tries to relax, but he can't sleep.

Exhaustion pulls at him, but he can't stop thinking about his conversation with Christine. Why would Sam say that? What does he want? None of it makes any sense. Does Sam think he can stay here? He decides he can't think about it right now. It doesn't matter. He can worry about it after they catch the killer.

He sighs and rolls over carefully, trying not to wake Christine.

He's going to miss his arranged meeting with Wong at the warehouse, he realizes. Wong mentioned he was staying at the Sanctum. Stephen wonders what that might looks like here, if it even exists here. If the Sanctum does exist here, he might be able to contact Wong there, assuming he's not up in Syracuse right now. He decides to go to Bleecker Street tomorrow, when his shift ends, see if he can find it. If Sam doesn't come back...

Stephen lets his mind wander for a while, tries to feel for Wong, just out of habit. Somewhere out there across the vast multiverse, probably sleeping right now, maybe with the cloak. _Nothing_. It's what he expected. He gives up.

He tries to sense the killer, abruptly realizes he hasn't felt the familiar hum of his mind for a few days. _Odd_. Stephen concentrates harder, actually putting some effort into it, but he still gets nothing. Just a weird blank feeling and a headache for his troubles. Maybe he's too far away right now, the connection between them too tenuous.

The baby wakes around two in the morning, snuffling and crying to be fed. Christine climbs carefully out of bed, rocks her in a chair by the crib, singing softly. A tune he doesn't know—a lullaby. Stephen stares up at the shadows shifting on the ceiling, the flash of headlights from the street below, and listens.

 

                                                                 " _Your daddy's the moon_

_Your father's the sun_

_Your mama's beside you_

_Sleep well, little one_

_Dawn will come soon_

_Away goes the moon_

_Back comes the sun_

_Wake up, little one"_

 

He closes his eyes and finally sleeps... And dreams about a familiar street.

_His street in the city. He feels the wind whip around him, sweeping trash and old leaves against his legs and into the gutters as he walks past alleys and stoops, store fronts locked behind metal shutters for the night. He stops in front of an old building. And he knows, somehow, that he's been here before. Maybe in another world. Another life..._

_The building must have once been grand, but now she's a wreck—windows boarded up, elaborate facade crumbling to the sidewalk, graffiti staining her sides. A For Sale sign tacked to the front, the realtor's number faded and unreadable._

_The building looks ready for the wrecking ball, but he knows it's all a lie, an illusion. He can feel the power coming from this place, hidden beneath the building's clever disguise. Protection against those who would destroy her. He steps closer to the old doors, lifts his hand to force them open._

_A dark shape stirs against the wall—a homeless man, an old alpha. He smells of stale piss and rot. His eyes are white with cataracts—twin moons staring out of the dark. A liquid bubbling sound rises slowly from the old man's chest—a warning. "Go away," he growls. "You are not the master here. And this place is not for you. Go away."_

_The old alpha pushes himself to his feet, bares his teeth in a snarl. "You are nothing here."_

 

***

 

"Stephen." Christine's voice wakes him.

"Hmm?"

"Your phone. It's the hospital."

It takes him a moment to remember where he is. And _when_ he is. Not five years ago, but right now. _Not his Christine, not his world_. "Oh. Fuck."

"Yeah. Sorry." Christine whacks him on the arm with something. "Here."

His phone. He takes it from her, still only semi-conscious. He stares blearily at the screen for a while before the words make sense. "Gotta go in. GSW. Bullet impinging on spinal cord."

"Sounds fun," Christine mumbles.

He slips out of bed and finds the extra clothes he keeps here in the dresser, mostly by smell, dresses as quietly as he can. He stops to stare down at Emily for a second. She's sleeping on her stomach now, her tiny mouth open. He brushes his fingers lightly over her head.

And then he walks out into the living room and calls a cab. Time to go back to work.

 

*** 

 

The surgery to fix the gunshot victim's shattered spinal cord is complicated, but his hands are steady and sure.

He works non-stop for three hours, carefully removing every tiny fragment of shattered bone, then stitching up the patient's torn arachnoid membrane and dura. Everything is going as well as can be expected and, yet, Stephen feels an odd sense of unease rising inside him. He keeps checking in with the anaesthesiologist—but the patient's vitals are fine. He can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. He glances up at the clock. 7:15. He runs through his technique in his head over and over again. Perfect, he's sure. He hasn't missed anything. The orthopedic surgeons take over for him at 9:30. With some extensive physical therapy, the patient should be able to walk again. 

By morning rounds, Stephen's unease has grown into a pervasive dread. Something's definitely wrong.

Nothing terribly interesting during rounds—all patients on the neuro service getting better or worse as expected—and the residents and interns seem to have everything well in hand. No reason for him to feel so agitated. He starts compulsively checking and re-checking his phone. No messages, no calls. No sign of what's wrong.

He's just finishing up on a consult in the ER when one of the nurses pulls him aside. Stephen thinks her name is Sara—the one who brought the doughnuts, Christine's friend.

She smells like stress and fear. The sense of dread he's been feeling all morning intensifies, curls in his gut. 

"Have you seen Christine this morning?" she asks.

 _This_ is what's wrong. He swallows hard. "Not since four or so when I came in. Why?"

Sara grabs at the stethoscope hanging around her neck, twists it. "Her shift started at nine, but she didn't show up. She's not answering her phone either. It's just... it's not like her. I don't have her nanny's number. Can you call him? See if she's there?"

"Yeah. Hold on."

He calls Christine first and it goes straight to voicemail. Her phone must either be off or out of batteries. No way Christine would let that happen. 

What was the nanny's name? He hadn't paid that much attention. He scrolls through the contacts in his phone until he finds one that looks right—Sebastian? That was it.

Someone picks up after three rings. "Hey, Stephen. What's up?"

"Uh, hi. I just wanted to check... Is Christine there?"

"No. She left for work a few hours ago. Maybe four... Everything okay?"

 _Hours_. She should be here. A cold sweat breaks out on his forehead. "Yeah, everything's... fine." Another terrifying thought suddenly occurs to him. "And Emily? Is she there with you?"

"Yeah. She's right here. We're just having a mid-morning snack. You want to talk to her? She's into that right now. You know, hearing people on the phone."

A small shiver of relief rushes through him, making his legs weak. At least she's okay. "Uh, no thanks." 

Sara's watching him, waiting. He shakes his head slowly. "She's not there. The nanny says she left for work four hours ago." _A cab... She would have taken a cab... Fuck._

"I'll call the police," Sara says. Stephen nods, watches her back as she rushes over to the nurses station.

His hands start to shake as he calls Sam. There's no answer, so Stephen waits for his voicemail. "Sam, it's me. Look... something's happened here. I'm pretty sure... Something bad. Call me back."

He hangs up and closes his eyes. " _Fuck_."

 

***

 

Stephen begs off the next patient, locks himself in his office. He checks his phone and e-mail again. No one has called. No messages from Christine or Sam.

 _Shit_.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a few minutes, tries to force himself to calm down, so he can focus on the killer—that tenuous connection between them. Lets his mind wander as far out as he can, following and testing different threads, trying to catch a hint of something he recognizes. He's always been good at thinking under pressure, but it's still a struggle to remain calm when every possibility leads to a dead end.

He finds nothing. Just that odd closed-off feeling from before, like he's hitting a wall. It's familiar, somehow, but he can't place it.

This guy is out there—he's sure of it—but there's nothing except a curious blank spot where a mind should be. Unless...

_Oh, shit._

He suddenly knows what this is. Has used it, himself, many times. _A shield_. He can't see this bastard because he's shielding his mind. 

The text alert sound on his phone finally draws Stephen back to his body. Cold dread floods his gut, forces the breath from his lungs. He already knows what he's going to find when he picks it up. His hands are shaking so much, he has trouble reading the screen. The message is from Christine's number:

**I can feel you trying to find me**

_No.._. No, please... His throat has gone dry. The phone chimes again. Three times in quick succession. He holds it as still as he can with a shaking hand.

**Meet me at the place we dreamed about last night**

**Come alone**

**Or I kill her**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay getting this up! Once again, real life intrudes... Probably an equally long wait for the last chapter. But it will be done. Oh, yes...
> 
> Thanks again for reading!
> 
> *Just wanted to give an estimate of finishing time. ~~I will probably finish the final chapter in mid-may, after the semester ends. I am so fucking far behind! I'm working on it, but it's going sooo slooow! But it will be done. That is a promise*~~
> 
> Almost done! So close now, I can taste it ;)


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